


i don't wanna say what i want first

by ameliajessica



Series: evolve [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: (just a lil), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Beast, Anal Sex, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Rimming, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2020-12-21 12:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21075125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliajessica/pseuds/ameliajessica
Summary: “Hey, ignore Eliot,” says Quentin. “He’s… you know, just being Eliot.”Quentin POV of "if being him is who you are / say it loud say you know you are", and then some. Would recommend reading 'part 1' first!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lightredemption](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightredemption/gifts).

> SO!!!
> 
> hi. i had no intention of writing a follow-up fic and i wasn't really convinced until babe nadia (lightredemption) asked for one, and the more i thought about it, the more there was stuff i wanted to write particularly about q and his thoughts throughout all of this. 
> 
> also, to address the handsome blond elephant in the room: thank you so much for the mike love in the previous fic. it was utterly and totally unexpected and not at all what i thought would be the most impactful thing about the fic, but, uh, there you go! i'm quite tickled by it. if it's my legacy in the queliot fandom, so be it.
> 
> i had people ask if there will be more mike, if i'd write a follow-up where they hook up. very gently and tenderly, i have to thank you again for liking my mike characterisation so much, if you can even call it that, but the answer is a very gentle and tender: no.
> 
> if that's the fic you wanted, then this isn't it. thank you for stopping by. to everyone else, i hope you enjoy!! 
> 
> p.s. i have to thank nicole and liz for the truly cathartic twitter group chat, which soothes and inspires me in equal measure every day. y'all are the best. thank you for talking me down from the spiral that this fic didn't need to exist at all.

“Hey, ignore Eliot,” says Quentin. “He’s… you know, just being Eliot.” Never mind that Quentin’s head still rang with,  _ He’s pretty _ , which… weird? Not really a descriptor he’s used to. Pretty was for models, or ethereal beings. Not guys who sometimes could go a full day and realize they never combed their hair.  _ Mike _ could be called ‘pretty’. Probably is called it, on a regular basis, by his own boyfriend. Even louder rang Eliot’s  _ I know,  _ followed by,  _ but I called dibs _ . The words sat in his stomach, unsettled, even as he knew he was…  _ well _ , just being Eliot.

At this point, what Quentin had learned about his surprising friendship with Eliot, if you could call it that, was that he had a lot of fun having an obsession with Quentin’s sex life. Or, let's be real, lack thereof. He thought the arrival of a serious boyfriend would occupy enough of Eliot’s time that he would have his hands (literally) too full to toy with him, just to delight in how genuinely flustered it makes Quentin. But you know, then he says shit like  _ dibs  _ to his boyfriend, over a grill, like it’s nothing, and Q has to go to bed thinking about it.

Which is why this thing with Alice, foxes or no, is  _ great _ . If he puts in the time for this, commits to this, maybe his heart would stop wanting to run out of his chest whenever Eliot walks into a room, because it's all just really inconvenient. Eliot is always walking into rooms, especially rooms Quentin is in, and despite his audacious flirting, Eliot has made it  _ quite  _ clear he's not interested beyond the endless, apparent entertainment it is watching Quentin blush. That part doesn't mean anything at all - because even _Margo _loves doing that. Again, he has  _ boyfriend _ now. It's stupid, how drawn Quentin is to Eliot, and has nothing to do with how good they could be for each other as just friends. It's Quentin’s own personal baggage that he has at least a 45% attraction to most of his friends (and yeah, that's including Margo, even as she knows she'd eat him alive), and he just happens to currently be friends with one of the hottest people he’s ever met.

In her room, he kisses Alice Quinn, not thinking about Eliot anymore. Or Eliot’s boyfriend. Both of whom are stupidly tall. Alice is right there, he barely has to duck his head down. She kisses back, a little. There’s a startled nature to Alice’s kisses, like she’s trying to figure it out as she goes, but it’s not unpleasant. It actually feels a little nice, if he thinks about how it means she wants to make sure she’s doing a good job, for him. It’s not really in Quentin’s nature to take the lead, so he’s fumbling a little too, trying to pick up on signs that he’s doing it right in turn.

Which is, not what Alice needs, as it turns out. She doesn’t shove him away as such, but it takes her out of it. He can feel the moment slipping from her as she takes a step back. And maybe she’s more  _ actually _ startled. Or, alarmed, more accurately. Starts rattling off about how he doesn’t actually like her, just  _ fox  _ her. 

“Maybe Eliot’s right,” she says at one point, stopping him in his tracks most of all. Because, again, the last thing he remembers Eliot saying is that he thinks Quentin is pretty. Technically. He was agreeing with Mike saying it but that  _ technically-- _

“Quentin.”

“What?”

“We might as well have been drunk, or high,” she says firmly. Maybe for the second time, from her tone. “I mean, are you in love with me?”

Quentin doesn’t have a lot of experience with love. He spent most of his potential ‘in love’ years, in love with one person who was decidedly  _ not  _ in love with him, and in fact dating plenty of people who  _ weren’t  _ him. He doesn’t really know what love feels like, when the other person is right there with you, or seemingly theoretically interested, in his and Alice’s case. What he’s used to is carrying it inside him, going about his life and not doing anything about it. This heavy stone of truth only for him, even if sometimes it turned his stomach when Julia would catch his eye at a party and smile at him. Love was something to live with, not act on. 

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But-- do I have to be? I mean we barely know each other, don’t we have time? To... you know, get there?”

She holds the door open for him. “I think we need to spend some time apart so we know what’s real and what’s fox.”

Quentin doesn’t really think so. For once in his life, he’s actually more interested in going with his gut than overthinking his feelings to death. Figures the one girl since Julia who he actually has any interest in is his spiritually anxious twin. Would it really be so hard to just make out with a girl first, and work out whether that was emotionally healthy later?

He hadn’t even-- he doesn’t know what to do with himself, now. How to distract himself and _actually not_ end up overthinking this thing with Alice, which he wants to keep lovely and simple. He could study, but God that feels too depressing, even if, yeah, he does need it. It’s probably what Alice is going to do, just across the hall.

A peal of delighted laughter travels up from outside, the owner of it immediately familiar. Quentin walks towards the nearest window, hopelessly drawn to the sound of Eliot’s happy giggles. He can look down into the garden from their window, to see where he left Eliot. Mike is laughing into Eliot’s neck and Eliot, still shaking with laughter, has his smile pressed into the side of Mike’s face. It’s the picture of perfect domesticity. 

Quentin turns around with a turning stomach. Absently, he misses Margo.

*

Alice crawls into his bed that night. “I freaked out,” she says.

“It’s okay,” says Quentin, because he’s not exactly in a position to judge freaking out, even if yeah, she did.

“I just… we hadn’t really even spoken, before all this, and… well, I had no idea you even liked me.”

He didn’t, really. He didn’t really have a lot of room to like anyone. Magic was real and he was off his meds and he was spending a lot of brain power adjusting to friends like Margo and Eliot. That they wanted him around. “I like you,” he says instead, because it’s true  _ now _ , and that’s what matters, and he thinks it’s the right thing to say.

It is. Alice ducks her head, shy and happy. It feels good to have been the one to make her smile like that. “C’mere,” he says, throwing his covers aside. 

Surprising him, she dives in without much complaint or hesitation.  _ Yeah _ , Quentin thinks, as she settles into his arms, willing and comfortable and leaning up for a kiss.  _ Yeah, we can do something with this. _

*

Things reach a nice balance. He and Alice start going steady, as the kids say - or used to say, about fifty years ago. It’s slightly jittery, delightfully awkward, but most of the time it works. They have a lot to say to each other, even if Alice doesn’t always love talking about magic. Which, once she opens about up Charlie, makes sense. In a lot of ways, it’s the high school relationship he never had. Not perfect, but they’re both really trying. Unfurling themselves for each other like he never had to with Julia, who always knew everything about him. It’s kind of nice, even as it’s not inherently really romantic. 

Plus it makes the whole situation with Eliot and Mike easier. Well, not that… it was difficult, as such, because of course Eliot was  _ allowed  _ to have a boyfriend. It’s just… it’s made things less murky. Eliot has a boyfriend, so when he flirts with Quentin it’s all good-natured, friendly fun. So he rolls his eyes, sometimes even rolls with it, but ultimately, Quentin is a guy with a girlfriend, and when he says, “In your dreams, Waugh,” dryly, he can enjoy the wicked glint in Eliot’s eye and not think much else about it. Plus, that’s not like that’s  _ all _ he and Eliot talk about. 

Secretly, what Quentin loves more than anything is when he and Eliot cut the flirty banter bullshit and just  _ talk _ , like real friends. Quentin has learnt not to geek out about magic with Alice, so it makes him swell with giddiness to see Eliot standing in the kitchen, or in the garden (and yeah maybe sometimes Quentin seeks him out), because he knows, for whatever reason, Eliot is happy to be talked at, about magic, kind of endlessly. Quentin is all but a little kid, tugging at his sleeve to show off a new tut, and Eliot indulges him, and Quentin  _ knows  _ he’s indulging but somehow it’s not patronizing or embarrassing. Or, it _is, _but still it’s just… nice. It’s nice when Eliot smiles at him, and says, “That’s great, Q,” a hand clapped on his shoulder. It's nice that he can feel himself _beaming _with pride, too pleased with himself, and Eliot doesn't tease him, doesn't call him lame or stupid. Eliot just smiles back. Eliot's just nice.

And somehow along the way that turned into being able to talk for hours, suddenly about stuff that isn’t magic at all. It’s not unlike the best parts of him and Julia, that common language and understanding they develop. 

But Quentin and Julia had grown to have same responses, same thoughts, almost two halves of one person. And with Eliot, it's closer to getting to know him from the inside, separate from himself but finding space for it anyway. Slotting in like a puzzle piece he didn’t know he had made room for. And vice versa - Eliot  _ likes  _ him. He’s not just a high-strung first year whose blushing amuses him. And he knows that now, because Eliot has a boyfriend and Quentin has a girlfriend and he's still keeping him around. He’s made a new friend - a real,  _ real  _ friend, the kind he’d dreamed of if he lived in a quest storybook. He even likes that friend’s boyfriend, who is actually pretty nice to him most of the time. For once in his dumb life, things are  _ working.  _

Until it doesn’t. Eliot starts being distant. And it starts to drive him crazy, the way it always has. He’s lost count of the amount of times he could feel Julia pulling away, and didn’t know why, and it just made him chase her more, made him work harder to make her like him again. One therapist has told him, about this behavioral pattern, that who he’s really chasing after is his mother. Which… look they probably weren’t wrong, but he doesn’t regret telling that therapist to go fuck themselves. 

Wherever Q is, Eliot makes himself  _ not  _ be. Where before he’d stop whatever he was doing to focus on Quentin - Eliot’s attention this intoxicating spell to be under - now he says, “That’s nice, Q, but I… I gotta go,” and makes a hasty exit, leaving like he’d never been there at all. It happens over and over, until he’s able to convince himself it’s not his paranoia and anxiety. It’s a pattern. That’s when he’s even able to find Eliot at all - most of the time, when he arrives at the cottage and asks for him, Margo, idly flicking through a magazine while Todd rubs her feet, yells out, “At Mike’s.” Or, that he’s upstairs, in his room, holed up with Mike.

Which is always, somehow, fucking  _ worse _ .

“I just don’t know what I did!” he complains to Alice. Well, to the ceiling, but Alice is laying beside him. “I wish he’d just tell me, so I could apologize, and then things could go back to normal.” 

Alice bites her lip uncertainly. “You’d just… apologize? You can’t think of one thing you did wrong but if Eliot tells you what it is, you’d just say sorry without a second thought? What if he's wrong?”

“Alice, I don’t think you understand. I didn’t grow up with a lot of friends. Definitely not friends like Eliot.”

“Like what?” 

“Cool,” he breathes out, pathetically. “Otherworldly. God, maybe he’s just sick of me. It makes sense. You’ll get sick of me next, then Margo. Julia already barely talks to me because she has her Knowledge friends.”

“Q,” she says, voice hitched with sadness, “don’t… say stuff like that. About yourself. I’m not sick of you. I just want you to be okay.” 

“I’ll be okay once Eliot talks to me again.” It’s out before he can really think about it, the words digging at a truth he’s not ready to face yet,  _ can’t  _ face - because there’s Mike, and there’s  _ Alice  _ and Eliot is a _friend_ . But Alice, sweet, wonderful Alice is sweetly, wonderfully gracious and just pats his shoulder. He gives her a tight smile, wanting her to think it helps. 

And then, eventually, she starts being a lot less gracious. “Oh my  _ God _ , Quentin.”

“I mean you saw! He literally-- he acted like he didn’t even  _ see _ me. I thought, hey, maybe if I stop being so fucking needy for once in my life and let _him_ come to  _ me,  _ then, you know, he’ll actually come to me, but I was right.”

“Quentin, I don’t know what you want.”

“I want Eilot to talk to me!” He’s yelling, he’s aware of distantly. He wonders if Eliot can hear him.

“No, from  _ me!”  _ Alice is yelling too. “I’m your  _ girlfriend _ and these days all we talk about is Eliot - how Eliot isn’t talking to you, how Eliot is avoiding you, how you miss Eliot and I don’t know what you want  _ me _ for.”

“God,” Quentin says, voice cracking, “I mean, I’m sorry that it’s so hard for you to have to listen to my problems.”

“No, Q, it’s not. It’s not hard to listen to you talk about homework, or your… your mom, or anything else. Even  _ Julia _ , I wouldn’t mind. It’s hard to have to listen to you talk about  _ Eliot.”  _ He hears the way she says his name, with bewilderment and venom and somehow even though he’s only noticing it now for the first time, he knows instantly it’s not the first time she’s said it that way. “I mean,  _ God _ Quentin, you’re  _ obsessed  _ with Eliot.”

Q’s stomach goes tight with panic. Again, it's too close to-- something. “What? Why would you say that? That’s… I mean, that’s hurtful, for you to say.”

“Well it’s hurtful for  _ me _ . I mean, how do you think I feel? All my boyfriend cares about is that some guy is probably just  _ too busy for him _ .”

“Some  _ guy?  _ Eliot’s my friend.”

“Is he?” Alice’s voice goes scarily calm, unsettlingly even. “Is he Quentin? Or is he more than that? Do you  _ want  _ him to be more than that?”

Quentin means to say words. Real, human words, but none of them are in his brain. He feels completely stripped bare. The English language escapes him.

“Yeah,” Alice says, hurt seeping back in. Her bottom lip quivers, and she pushes up her glasses. “Yeah that’s what I thought.”

Somehow he gets control of his communication skills again. “‘That what you thought’? Alice, what the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about us. And it being over.” The words wash over him, ice cold. 

“ _ Alice _ ,” he says, but she’s leaving, she’s out the door and down the stairs. And he follows, still calling her name. He doesn’t realize when he’s reached the bottom until she turns and delivers the final blow. He feels Eliot’s eyes on him as she goes, leaving him there. 

Mike’s too. Everyone’s actually.  _ God _ .

He turns and goes back upstairs, prepared to be there for the rest of the night. Maybe his life, if he’s organized enough. He’s got a few granola bars tucked away somewhere.

*

The threesome is a disaster, obviously. In his defense, Quentin didn’t exactly set out to be in one, not that being prepared would have… prepared him for it. His one quasi-experience had been another disaster. It had been one particularly drunken night with James and Julia. James, who was just too nice for him to hate, compared to Julia’s other boyfriends. Plus, he stuck around a lot longer. Crucially, he never asked for Julia to choose between the two of them. In fact, they hung out as a little trio most of the time, usually by James’s own invitation. Without meaning to, Quentin started to like him, genuinely. Started to worry about what would happen if they broke up, and Quentin would have to take Julia's side, and miss out on a (much-needed, not that he'd tell Julia) guy friend.

The best part of spending time with them was that Quentin never felt like a third party to a couple. Apart from that night, where there was something in the park air and they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, even as they were laughing too much to actually make out, right in front of him.

Julia noticed after a while, pulling away. “J, J we’re… being rude.”

“What?” James blinked slowly, coming back to Earth, having been lost in Julia; the way her boys always were. “Oh shit, my bad, Q.”

“It’s okay,” Quentin said quietly, tucking his hair behind his ear. More embarrassed at being caught watching. 

James laughed, but not cruelly. “I mean, there’s no reason you can’t join in.”

“What?” said Julia and Quentin together, laughing, because James was just  _ like that _ but then James was leaning forward, on hands and knees, and kissing Q, for once not  _ just talk _ . And holy shit, his brain was delirious and nervous but it just shut up, kissing  _ Julia’s boyfriend _ . Julia, who was sat there,  _ watching _ , so  _ close _ . His awareness of Julia spilled over and he let out an embarrassingly loud, broken moan, thinking about how he was kissing the mouth that kissed  _ Julia _ and getting actually fucking hard. James pulled away, Quentin’s  _ spit _ shiny on his lip, blinking with surprise. “Uh, Q?”

_ Jesus Christ.  _ “Wow, I’m…”  _ Sorry. So embarrassed. Still fucking turned on _ . All true. Thankfully, some cops came upon them in that moment, shining flashlights in their faces and there wasn’t much time for any more talking between scrambling to their feet and pushing through the woods. In retrospect, it must have been unintentional magic that allowed the three of them to make a speedy, stealthy escape, but by the time they make it to the subway platform they were so giddy and relieved they didn’t think to question it. They definitely didn’t remember Quentin’s reaction to a dumb, drunken kiss. 

Later, the next morning, when Julia did gently bring it up, he was able to cover it up by saying it was his first time kissing a boy and he was drunk and overwhelmed. It’s not how he intended to come out to his lifelong best friend, but it beat having to tell her it was because he’d been in love with her for as long as he'd known her.

There’s no such excuse with Eliot and Mike. They’re both  _ very _ aware of how much he’s attracted to guys, because they can fucking  _ feel his dick _ . When Mike kisses him, Eliot  _ there _ and  _ watching,  _ Q  _ whines _ with it, going far too pliant and maybe they can’t tell, but Quentin knows it’s because of Eliot. Well, a little because of Mike, because he really knows what he’s doing. But it’s a lot because of Eliot, in ways he hasn’t allowed himself to understand about himself until now.

Shockingly, Eliot is being extremely  _ un- _ Eliot about the whole thing. Or maybe, Q thinks with a panic, it’s just that Eliot doesn’t want him at all. Mike said he did but Eliot hasn’t even wanted to  _ talk  _ to him recently, the idea that he’s  _ attracted  _ to him is kind of insane. It would be anyway, he’s Eliot fucking Waugh. Not only is every person within radius eager to drop to their knees for him, in the regular worship sense  _ and  _ the sex worship one, he has a  _ boyfriend _ . A super hot, super  _ tall  _ boyfriend currently jerking Quentin off, with practice and ease and  _ indulgence _ , like it’s no problem if it takes hours till Quentin comes (which… it really, really won’t). 

It feels  _ good  _ \- but what feels better is having Eliot there. Better and worse at the same time. Just his presence is too close to too much. Then he  _ touches _ him. Holds his face, eyes trained on Quentin’s which go from fluttering shut to flying wide open, almost analytically taking in his expression. Quentin is painfully sober, but feels drunk and Eliot’s  _ attention, now _ of all times is more than he’s built to handle.

Mike knows what he’s doing. He could -  _ should  _ \- be perfectly content to just enjoy Mike’s touch, but Eliot is there, right there and if… well, if he closes his eyes, it’s so easy to pretend it’s Eliot (obviously a more supernatural, impossible Eliot, who is able to have both hands on Quentin’s face and neck and while also stroking him from inside his boxers). How is he supposed to know otherwise? Lost in the fantasy, he thinks about kissing Eliot, and pushes forward without second-guessing. There’s no finesse, and it’s a little awkward trying to stay in Mike’s hold while also holding onto Eliot, but it doesn’t matter. Holy fuck does it not matter, when Eliot  _ kisses him back _ , and somehow manages to fit the two of them together.

Mike’s hand is nudged away, and Eliot’s replacing it. Quentin knows it instantly, as if recognizing the imprint of a hand that’s been on his arm, shoulder, back and neck. Rougher than you’d expect it to be, but  _ big _ . And gentle. He eases Quentin out of his boxers slowly, pressing a thumb into the head. The noise in Quentin’s head gets so loud that it becomes silence. The only sound that breaks through is Eliot, and his harsh pants.

In fact, all he’s able to be aware of is Eliot. At first, it’s very possibly just Quentin’s own bias. His mind honing in on Eliot, the way it always fucking does - transparently obvious now, with Eliot’s mouth on his cock, that this has  _ always _ been on Quentin’s mind. Buried, by his own stubbornness. Or because he thought it was impossible, in light of the man currently sat behind him. How insane that he would get what he wanted, but had never dared ask for, whilst the obstacle for that very thing cradles him from behind.

Eliot’s mouth on his throat, Quentin lurches forward to cling to him, and Mike melts away. 

_ Is this what a threesome is supposed to be like? _ Quentin wonders absently, as Eliot moves his mouth further south, then further south with his fingers. He feels guilty about having a monopoly on Eliot and Mike is just watching, watching with an expression Q can’t quite figure out. But that’s— that can be part of it too, right? Just watching? Margo has told him (against his will) time and time again that when she’s had them with Eliot, she’s perfectly content to sit back, let Eliot have his way with a boy and enjoy the view, if that was the “vibe”. Maybe that’s what’s happening. Maybe that’s what Mike suggested to Eliot. Maybe it’s what he wants.

Then Eliot gets inside him and Quentin couldn’t give less of a shit of what Mike wants.

_ I should not have done this _ , flits through his mind, the thought sharp and bright. Looking up at Eliot’s face - his radiantly handsome face - he thinks it, knowing that there’s no getting  _ past this,  _ for him. He can’t  _ unknow _ what it feels like, to have Eliot’s attention and care. Eliot, for whom this is a fun, exciting detour from his life of monogamy. One of several already had, and to come. He tries to close his eyes against it, to indulge in the feeling of Eliot fully while he can have it, but his eyes are hungry, greedy, and don’t slide all the way shut. 

It’s a slow but desperate build to his orgasm. When it does happen, it’s more intense than he can ever remember it being - even with  _ Alice _ , even as foxes, which had felt like existing outside of himself, a version that only wanted hunger and pleasure and no anxiety or nerves at all. It feels dragged out from somewhere deep inside him. Like a plug being pulled, and pure relief washing over him. He can’t hear himself think, though he’s distantly aware that he’s being  _ loud _ . He’s saying Eliot’s name, and then it’s still going as Eliot strokes him through it. So thorough. 

Eliot isn’t done yet but Quentin… is. At least, done with being able to complete basic bodily functions like keeping his eyes open, or even keeping his face turned upwards instead of flopping onto pillow. Because really, he’s not done with this. Even through the stretch and already-starting soreness, it feels wonderful. Eliot’s attention and care always is. Fucking always, isn’t that how he’s got himself in this mess? Not just the threesome, but the Alice-of-it-all too. Wanting something he knows he’s never going to have.

But he’s having it now. It doesn’t matter that he’s not watching it, that he’ll never have it again. He can close his eyes, cheek smushed against the pillow, and just _ feel _ Eliot before it’s all over. 

Then something miraculous happens. Eliot says Q’s name - the first time since he’s been inside him. It rattles in his ribs. It turns his head. Eliot  _ asking  _ for him. He looks like he’s being turned inside out. Sympathy and happiness pluck at Quentin to see it. Something beyond his own understanding of himself  _ understands _ something, in this moment. Understands that he should touch Eliot’s cheek, his sharp jaw, not really knowing why, but Eliot turns his face into his face, buckling around it like it soothes his urgency while also aggravating it. His thrusts turn stilted, halting.  _ Stalling _ . 

The miracle is that Eliot doesn’t want this to end either. That their bodies knew to want this, and how to want it, before they did. 

Quentin sits up, no longer able to detachedly wait for Eliot to come to his orgasm. Quentin's not quite sleepy anymore, but not quite awake either, moving through a daze of confidence he didn't mean to conjure up and definitely didn't previously think he was capable of. He puts himself if Eliot’s lap, this perfect seat just for him and then, because he can, starts to kiss down Eliot’s throat, so precious and beautiful. Eliot gasps out a pained moan that’s not quite Quentin’s name, but it’s for  _ him _ . All of this is for him - his sweat, his stuttering breath, his cock hard and hot inside him. Quentin smiles against the crook of Eliot’s neck, humming as he fits another kiss on his skin, incandescently pleased with himself and with Eliot.

He doesn’t mean to, but when his brain is fiercely pulsing out thoughts of  _ mine mine mine _ , in time with Eliot's thrusts, his gaze finds Mike’s, following the direction of feeling someone watching him. And oh-- oh shit.  _ Oh no  _ Mike , Quentin thinks, mouth falling open. That’s right. He's not his. Eliot is--

\--coming, noisy and almost garbled, not saying any words at all. Just long-awaited, long-deserved pleasure, finally overtaking him. Eliot finishes, uh,  _ finishing _ on a happy sigh, pushing his face into Quentin’s shoulder while Quentin is still holding him. 

It’s, like, not a big deal but now the post-orgasm cloud is fading, it’s starting to dawn on Q that his life as he knows it is kind of crumbling down at this moment. He has feelings for Eliot. Real feelings, not just horny and needy  _ crush _ feelings - well, not  _ just  _ those. Eliot, who has a boyfriend, but who  _ has _ to feel the same way, because he’s staring at his boyfriend with the same horror Quentin is currently feeling. But that’s also why it feels like they’re going to come out of this on the other side pretty unscathed - not Mike, obviously, and guilt and sadness turns Quentin’s stomach at the thought - but if they can just hang onto each other, then they can come out somewhere better, somewhere where no-one else has to get hurt. Something in Quentin  _ believes _ in that, like a seed taking root and ready to thrive.

So of course, just as Quentin Coldwater of all people starts to be optimistic, Alice walks in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doing as Mike said is easier said than done, obviously. In the moment, it feels like the perfect bookend but Eliot, despite the very known, very public break-up is still doing a very good job of avoiding Quentin. His coping mechanism of choice, it seems, to throw the craziest, most wildest parties of his entire career, if the rumor mill is to be believed. Quentin wouldn't exactly know, not having been here for a year of them, but they're definitely intense enough that stepping into them to find Eliot makes him feel like his teeth are on fire.
> 
> Honestly, that he's even doing so says enough to Quentin about how real his feelings are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the lateness on this, you guys. if "bunnies" are still en vogue to say, that's what happens - in essence, about three other queliot fics still currently ongoing, and of course the ones i posted in between. thank you for your kind words and patience and - again - i hope this tides you by until we get to that sweet resolution.

It is very hard to be in the Cottage at all, with the Eliot and the Alice of it all. His life has fallen apart in the span of one messy, messy night. Wonderful and euphoric but messy all the same, and just seeing it from a distance is enough to make him turn around and find somewhere else to go to study, or nap, or whatever. If he could, he'd sleep in the library (he tried. He got kicked out).

His whole life, he has only ever been able to go to one place when he’s had nowhere else to go.

“Here you go,” says Julia, handing him his tea. Quentin doesn’t take it from the handle, grabbing straight for the mug and winces when it burns his hand. Julia throws him an unimpressed look before schooling her face into something more sympathetic. Despite the distance between them, she’d welcomed him and his sour face with literal open arms. The walls between them came down instantly, the way they always would, when it truly mattered. She’d welcomed him, without questioning, once she opened her door and saw the look on his face.

She’s watching him carefully now. Maybe he’s still wearing that same look. It would make sense; all he can think about and feel relates back to Eliot and Alice and Mike and _Eliot_. It’s painful and wonderful and scary all at once. His face is probably doing very interesting, complicated things.

“So,” she says, delicately. His hand still stings but he offers a weak smile. “We don’t have to talk about it… but also? I think we probably.. have to talk about it?” 

Quentin sighs. “Yeah I mean… you’re probably right. What you’re saying sounds like the right thing to do.”

She smiles back sympathetically, but doesn’t say any more. Right. Time to open up then. But before he starts talking, she puts her hand on his, which helps. He tells her everything. Tells her that things with Alice were going well, until they weren’t. That they weren’t because things stopped going well with Eliot. And then one night, Mike came up to talk to him, and then Mike was kissing him, and then Eliot was there and was kissing him too. He doesn’t fill her in on every sordid detail, even though every second of it is crystal clear in his mind. All he leaves her with is that, sleeping with Eliot was more than he could have ever imagined, and made him realize more than he was really prepared for. Namely, how far gone he was for Eliot, in a very real way.

“Oh _there’s_ a surprise,” Julia says dryly.

“_God… Was I_ really…”

“What?”

“That _obvious_. I didn’t— I mean I knew I knew Eliot was _hot_, I do like, have _eyes_ and a working brain.” And nose and hands and _tongue—_  
  


But yeah, his brain wasn't _that_ broken.  
  


"Mostly," he says, unable to resist the self-dig.

“Objection,” Julia calls out, one hand raised and eyes twinkling with humor.

“Overruled,” Quentin says, with no heat, smiling back. God he’s fucking _missed_ her. “But seriously, how come everyone else knew this about me before I knew it about me? I _am_ me.”

Julia sets down her tea and sighs. “Q… I mean, I don’t know, there’s just always been something _different_ about you two. Something private, that no-one else could get in on. It kind of… drove me crazy, for a while, until I realized you weren’t, like, replacing your best friend, exactly. That it ran… deeper than that. I never really _told_ you, but that’s why I’ve been kind of… distant. It’s been complicated for me to deal with.”

_That_ was a lot to unpack, but one part of it he’s happy to address now. He nudges her shoulder. “You’ll always be my best friend, Jules.” 

Julia smile’s is soft, sad. “Maybe. Maybe not. I think it’s okay, though. I’ll always be your oldest friend. But. I don’t know— I think you like Eliot _best_. And I think that’s okay. I think you like Eliot best out of everyone in your life.”

“Jesus,” Quentin says, feeling suddenly _naked_. Of course Julia would be the one to see right through him. To see the truth he was desperately trying to keep buried, dug too far down for even him to access. He pulls his knees to his chest. He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he goes for honesty. Just says, “I don’t know what to say to that.”

Ever-brimming with kindness and tact, Julia cools it on that subject. 

Doesn't add that he's not exactly saying _no_ to any of what she said.  
  


“How does Eliot feel? Have you talked to him?”

“No… he’s been distant too. But— I don’t know, I don’t exactly have a great track record for a, uh, like, _sense_ for these things but I don’t think I’m wrong here. I could like, _feel_ it. It can’t— it can’t have been just a hook-up for him. Too. I’ve had shitty, meaningless hook-ups and they don’t feel like _that_.”

“Like what?” Julia says.

God.

As Quentin says, “Uh, I don’t think you actually want to hear me describe it,” Julia responds, “No, you’re right, I really, really don’t.”

“And, um,” she says, of course sensing that it wasn’t going to be good, “what happened with Alice?”

He hadn’t quite gotten to, uh, the big finish (no pun intended), and what came (_God_, no pun intended) after.

_This _is what happened with Alice:

_“Alice, wait!” he called. This time he followed her all the way out, down the stairs, and out of the door. The cold evening breeze lit up the sting of Eliot’s bites and kisses, all over his body but especially his throat. He shivered, and tugged at his collar. “_Alice!”

_“What?” Alice yelled, whipping around, bright hair whipping around with her. “What, Quentin? What could you_ possibly _say to me.”_

_She raised a shaky hand up, to the second floor, in the general direction of Quentin’s bedroom. “You— you want to tell me again how Eliot’s so_ special _to you, how he’s just such a_ special friend _and you love him_ so much, _as your friend? I think I got it. I got it before but now I_ really _get it,_ explicitly, _thank you.”_

_“I’m sorry,” Q threw out, because he was cold and Alice’s words were cutting through everything else that he could say. It was true. Despite everything, he was sorry. “I really… I’m really sorry, Alice.”_

_Alice laughed, hurt and short. “Great, Q. That’s great. I’m sorry too, Quentin. Sorry I ruined the_ mood_.”_

_“I just… you broke up with me, and I was_ upset…”

_“Oh my God!” This laugh was higher, hysterical. “You are_ not _saying this to me right now.”_

_“It’s true!” Quentin said, face burning, because while, yeah, it_ was _true_, _he could hear how it sounds. “I didn’t— well I_ didn’t _cheat on you but I didn’t_ mean _to sleep with someone else, I was just… I was just being with my friends. It just... turned into something else because I was hurting.”_

_Friends - is that what he's calling Mike now? Maybe he could have once. But definitely not now, not anymore. His stomach topples over with more guilt, more shame._

_“Fine,” Alice said. “Maybe. But you didn’t go running into Margo’s arms, or some random girl.”_

_“Oh it’d have to be a_ girl _now?” Prickly. Quentin couldn't help it._

_“Do_ not _accuse me of biphobia_ now,” _said Alice, rolling her eyes, even as she conceded: “But fine, it wasn’t some random dude. It was Eliot.”_

_“And Mike,” Quentin added, feebly. _

“Why _did_ you sleep with Mike?” says Julia. “I mean… _did_ you sleep with Mike? I don’t exactly need the details but I am a little confused on the… logistics, I guess.”

Quentin rubs his face. “I… well, sort of. Not exactly. Eliot kind of… took over and—”

“Oh God, _stop!_”

“—and then it was _over_,” Quentin finishes, a little indignantly.

“Okay.” Julia stops, processing this. “So— wait, you slept with Mike’s boyfriend—”

“He has a _name_—”

“—in _front of Mike_. Like, you just… forgot to… share him?”

“It wasn’t exactly on purpose!”

_“But it wasn’t an accident either, was it Quentin? People don’t ‘accidentally’ sleep with people. There’s some steps to get there.”_

_“What about us?” Quentin yelled, because yeah, he didn’t exactly go to Brakebills South with the intention of sleeping with her, but that happened, and that had been a_ good _thing. It had been one of the happiest accidents of his life. It had been good and gratifying to learn that sometimes life can throw you_ happy _curveballs, not just shitty ones. That had been his whole journey until now, with Brakebills, and for better or worse, Alice was always going to be a part of that. Eliot too, yes, but—_

_But he didn’t say any of that out loud. And Alice… Alice looked done. Quentin had finally put the final nail in the coffin._

_The worst part was that he didn’t… he didn’t care, anymore. He cared about Alice. He was sad he hurt her. But there was nothing to fight for. Maybe there never had been. It was hard to figure that out now when,_ God, _there was_ Eliot_. Eliot Eliot Eliot. He couldn’t think about anyone else. He didn’t_ need _to think about anything else. The world had fallen off its axis, and was put back on a different track, spinning somewhere new. Somewhere... somewhere he hoped Eliot could come around to as well. He_ had _to._

_“I hope you two are_ very _happy together,” said Alice, like she could read his mind. And like she didn’t mean a word of it._

“Yikes,” says Julia. Then, “I’m sorry, Q.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. He’s sorry too. 

*  
  


Doing as Mike said is easier said than done, obviously. In the moment, it feels like the perfect bookend but Eliot, despite the very known, very public break-up is still doing a very good job of avoiding Quentin. His coping mechanism of choice, it seems, to throw the craziest, most wildest parties of his entire career, if the rumor mill is to be believed. Quentin wouldn't exactly know, not having been here for a year of them, but they're definitely intense enough that stepping into them to find Eliot makes him feel like his teeth are on fire.

Honestly, that he's even doing so says enough to Quentin about how real his feelings are. 

For all everyone is lapping up the stepped-up Physical Kids soirees, Eliot himself is... a wreck. Quentin can see it. Margo, from the way she's watching Eliot, can see it, even if she's not saying anything. She just sips her martini, unhappiness and worry settled in her brows as Eliot drinks cocktail after cocktail, loudly singing and swaying to the music in their designated and untouchable playlist - literally, he tried to once, just to see the song that was playing, and the phone burnt his hand, charmed to only be touched by Margo or Eliot. 

She spots Quentin from across the room. Her eyes narrow. He doesn't exactly know what she's trying to communicate but Quentin shrugs, gestures at Eliot beside her and tries to shape his face into something equally worried but devoted. It works - Margo smiles, just a little, and rolls her head. _Go on, then_. She touches Eliot's arm in goodbye, slinking away to some other corner of the Cottage.

Eliot doesn't notice him until he's approached him. He looks down surprised, pained, and then it's a classic Eliot Waugh expression. Smug, and bored. "Little Quentin," he coos. "What a surprise. Finally had enough of writing centaur porn and decided to party with the big kids?"

_Coping mechanism_, Quentin tells himself. He knows Eliot's tics as much as his own. _Push through_. "Can I, um, talk to you?"

"We are talking, sweetheart." Eliot takes a drag from a cigarette. "Talking when I could be occupying my mouth in a _lot_ of other ways. You should be very flattered."

"I meant," Quentin says, tersely, "away from here."

"Away? From here? Why, I can't just leave my party, Quentin. That's very déclassé."

It's bullshit. Eliot has left _plenty_ of his own parties - not just to go outside for a cigarette, but fully leaving, enjoying the mystique it adds if the host of the evening is absent. He's fucking _told_ Quentin as much, when he's sat with Quentin, just Quentin, instead of letting everyone fawn over him. Maybe the truth was that Eliot needed a break too, that making small chit chat with people he didn't actually give a shit about did exhaust even him, but maybe it had been for Quentin— whatever that could mean. 

"Okay, well, I don't really care about what's _classy_," Quentin says dryly, "but I just want to make sure— I mean, Eliot we _need_ to talk."

"About what?" Eliot says on a sigh, gazing somewhere above Quentin's head. Like Quentin was the least interesting thing happening to him right now, and he was looking for where else he could go as soon as this is done. Maybe before that.

"_Eliot_." Quentin can't fucking take it. He takes that stupid, overpriced cigarette from Eliot's stupid fingers and throws it on the ground. Nothing to hide behind now. Quentin's heart pounds, watching the way Eliot gawks down at him.

Shock makes way for guilt at least. Quentin drinks it in. He wants to stand up taller, tippy toes, and hold Eliot to him. Do away with any complicated feelings that aren't the way Quentin wants to be in his arms again.

"I don't want to bullshit, Eliot. I—that night meant something to me. I mean, to _us_, I think."

Eliot keeps looking for that escape above Quentin's head. 

"I mean, am I crazy, El? Tell me you didn't feel—what I did. Mike could even tell. I just—I think we _work_, you know? Not just, you know, _that_ part of it, but all of it. And isn't—I mean, most people would settle for half of what we know we have, and who gets that kind of... proof of concept? Doesn't it seem like a waste to just pretend like it didn't happen?"

Eliot isn't looking past him anymore. He's looking down at Quentin, something like the ghost of a smile trying to push through, even if his eyes are so wide. He chews his lip, looks down. Looks back at Quentin.

"Q." Eliot's voice is so soft, Quentin shouldn't be able to hear it over the roar of the party. But he has no idea if the party is still there. It's just him and Eliot - Eliot and that low voice, infused with feeling.

Then Eliot does the worst possible thing he could. He _laughs._  
  


"Look, I’ll take the credit for completely bewitching you to the point where you even thought we should broach this topic. And honestly, I had a good time. Your ass is as good as it promises to be, I've no complaints there. Pat yourself on the back. Or your ass, I guess, would be more appropriate. But that's all it is, sweet cheeks. Let's not make mountains out of mole hills."

Never, not since they've first laid eyes on each other, has Eliot been deliberately cruel to Quentin. Never made him feel small or foolish or crazy. It's jarring. It's fucking awful. Quentin is about this close to losing his nerve. He's starting to forget how he even got some in the first place.  
  


“I… I told Mike that I wouldn’t let you do this. He made me promise.”

Eliot's gaze hardens again. “Well, considering Mike broke up with me, I think he doesn’t get a say in who I date next.”

“So you would want to?” Quentin swallows. “Date me?”

Eliot’s jaw goes hard, ticking. “That’s not the point. That’s not me, Quentin.”

Not Eliot. Not _Quentin_. Right... of course _not._

He's an idiot. He's an _idiot_. _Mike_ is a fucking idiot. He wouldn't even be doing this if—if Mike hadn't _encouraged_ him. Quentin knew better. Knew better than to want things out of his reach, to be _stupid_ enough to think that they would fall to his level. 

"Okay," Quentin says, because. Because he's tired. Actually like, physically. He rubs at his eyes. "I—sorry."

Eliot's mouth opens, then closes, and he chews on his lip. "Q—it's not like I don't care about you, I—"

"It's fine," Quentin says, mortified at the strain in his voice. He clears his throat, hoping Eliot is drunk enough that he can't look too closely and see Quentin's eyes blurring with tears. "I, um. I'm just—gonna go. Sorry again for interrupting."

"Q you don't have to _leave_," Eliot says, a little wild and desperate, which hurts even more while also making no sense at all. "Stay."

_Yeah as if that's fucking happening_. Quentin's pathetic - but he's not _that_ pathetic. "No, it's okay," Quentin says, trying for smile, "I mean, I only came to talk to you, so... I mean! No, I just. I'm not really in the mood Eliot, really, it's okay. I wouldn't want to bum everyone out."

"You wouldn't. Quentin, you wouldn't."

"I have to go," Quentin says. "Early—early morning."

"It's the _weekend_, Quentin."

"Yeah, I," Quentin laughs. "I'm not you, or Alice, or—Julia, I can't afford to _not_ be in the library at all times, honestly, if I don't want to flunk out. Maybe next time?"

It's a weak offer, one he only makes so it softens the blow for Eliot. Because he's a fucking idiot, always a people-pleaser, always feeling like shit so others feel better. Even when he's having his heart broken. But that's just it, isn't it? His heart is Eliot's. It hurts if Eliot hurts. If Eliot feels bad for having to let silly, silly Quentin Coldwater down nicely. 

"Okay," Eliot says, slow and reluctant. "If you're sure."

"Yeah," Quentin says, even though he isn't. "I, uh. Have a good night, Eliot."

He walks up to his room, setting up a silencing ward. It's quiet and lonely, and exactly as he left it of course. It's like he never went anywhere, not downstairs, at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @ ameliajessica on tumblr!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A really neat thing about Quentin is that he’s good at behaving productively when he’s battling against the constant, dull ache of recent heartbreak. Semi-functional, even – if you consider how he’s not really all that functional in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW HELLO EVERYONE. a million months later. i wish i could say i forgot this story existed and that's why it took so long but in actuality i was just THAT STUCK. finally i have figured out where to go with this fic, so the upcoming updates shouldn't take AS LONG (i hope...) but at least there's a LONG update to tide you by in the meantime
> 
> thank you for the reviews and kudoses thus far. i'm so happy we're all still here
> 
> big shouts out always to liz @buttcasino and nicole @coldbam for putting up with my complaining, you guys are the best! truly! who would i be without talking 2 u every day

A really neat thing about Quentin is that he’s good at behaving productively when he’s battling against the constant, dull ache of recent heartbreak. Semi-functional, even – if you consider how he’s not really all that functional in the first place.

He has a handle on it. He did it for a long, long time, with only occasional bouts of longing that stopped his rhythm and his thinking and his heart because the light caught Julia a certain way, or she looked at him with something that felt like _something_ when he said something dumb or nerdy or even sweet, when he managed to do the latter. But it was always this quick thing – a swift thread of painful yearning running through him and then away again, relieving him once again from heartache so that he could get on with the shit he needed to go. You know, tasks.

His classes kick his ass, his professors kick his ass, some of the books themselves literally come close to physically kicking his ass (because, reminder, books are _alive_? Sometimes?) so he doesn’t even really have the time to think about how Eliot kicked his heart in the ass. It almost—feels like it was meant to happen. He was slacking enough to create time to moon after his older, sexy friend who _had a boyfriend_, _and_ get a wildly out-of-his-league girlfriend, and so wrapped up in the wonder and dizzying excitement that this was _his life_ that he forgot about like, school. Studying. _Tasks_.

So that’s his life. Studying. Eating. Magic. Tasks. It’s not a bad life. A little... lackluster, after getting used to the bright lights right in his face the moment he stumbled through those bushes, but that was never meant to be _him_, anyway. Boys like Quentin Coldwater... it’s better when they know their place, in their own story. Nothing is going to whisk him away to Fillory, or into the arms of... whoever. He’s not one who gets whisked, nor does he do whisking. He’s just... it’s fine. He’s doing fine, like this. And fine is fine. It’s like when he first started getting used to being on his meds. The flatness. He can live on flatness. Flatness is steady, and Quentin's always needed more of that.

He gets out of bed, he has breakfast in the cafeteria so that he doesn’t have to set foot in the kitchen, goes to his classes, studies in the library and goes back to the Cottage to sleep. Lunch and dinner are usually with Julia, but not always, because she’s off social butterflying as is her nature. And Quentin is past the point of needing to hang onto her sleeve or feeling inadequate because she has friends who aren’t him. He—has friends, too, even if he’s not seeing them, but he’s just so busy. Studying. Magic. _Tasks_.

The hardest—the _only_ hard parts are the parties. They feel near constant, and wilder. Or maybe it's just that Quentin is holed up in his room, left with only the gleeful noise floating up to him, to interpret what it's like down there. Maybe Margo and Eliot are dancing with abandon, drunk and delirious and magic. Maybe Alice is there, is kissing a new guy. Maybe _Eliot_ is kissing a new guy. Maybe maybe maybe. Maybe if he wasn't such a stupid piece of shit he could be down there too, laughing with Eliot, and Margo, even Alice, if he hadn't just... fucking screwed _everything_ up with his stupid _feelings_—

Is what he thinks on party nights. He doesn't mention this to Julia, of course, because it's not a—big deal. And she'd make it into one, obviously. That's Julia. Much as she doesn't want to accept it, _this_ is Quentin. He—probably won't ever shake this—this loneliness, this inescapable dread at never escaping himself, who he is. This _person he fucking hates_. 

God, it's no wonder he threw himself at Alice, then at Mike, and finally at Eliot. These brighter, better people, even fucking Mike, Quentin couldn't find a legitimate fault with (well, you know, politics-aside. Not that Quentin ever _would_ put those aside, but, like, he couldn’t deny Mike’s soft smile, the softer kisses he was able to give with that smile)—like them fucking Quentin made up for Quentin being... Quentin. 

Most nights he manages to find sleep at some point—a muffling charm certainly helps, once he figures one out, and _Fillory_ is always there to lull him into the morning if he needs a distraction. 

Then sometimes, just sometimes, because he's not found a permanent charm, just as he's about to set it up, he'll hear Margo and Eliot stumble up the stairs. Eliot giggling up a storm while Margo shushes him, though he can just imagine the brilliant smile on her own face. Their secret, amazing little world. Once upon a time Quentin would be dragged along, helping Eliot stand on his other side, trying to ignore the swoop in his stomach as Eliot would ruffle his hair or laugh helplessly against his ear at something Quentin said, something Quentin wouldn't even have meant to be funny. 

One night—Eliot's laughing so unbelievably hard, it rings through Quentin's walls, ricochets in his skull. He puts his hands down, living in the sound. Eliot has—a really nice laugh. Even when it's dazed, drunk, it's so nice. It bubbles out of him, fizzy and delirious and delicious like champagne. 

"Come on, El," Margo says. "Nearly there baby."

So gentle. Margo is always gentle with Eliot, when she knows no-one is around to see it. Technically Quentin isn't either but just to hear that caring cadence in her voice jolts Quentin, makes him _ache_. 

"_Margo_."

Must have been a good night. Eliot sounds _wrecked_. 

"I know, honey, I know. Almost, just a few more steps, then it's gonna be okay."

Or—a bad one. Shit. Eliot—it doesn't sound right. Quentin's heart picks up. Maybe—is this about Mike? Or—

He drops his hand, running it through his hair. Grounding, or maybe distracting from that train of thought.

Sleep. Sleep. He needs to go to sleep. And not think about how Eliot does or does not feel about him. 

The muffling charm doesn't get set up. At first because of the distraction of Margo and Eliot, so close to him, but then it's because Quentin can't help listening out, wondering, if maybe he'll hear something else, and if that something will be enough for him to leave his room. His eyes wide, his heart racing, as he hears nothing but quiet from across the hall, all night long.

*

Quentin hates mornings_._ As a lifelong insomniac, this isn't an Eliot-rejection development, but it doesn't make it, like, any easier. There are always several beats in the morning, right when he reaches something resembling wakefulness, where it just hits him that like—God, what if he just... didn't move? Stayed here? Where it was warm and cozy and lacking in any responsibility. A true neutral space. He wasn't anyone, nothing was anything. It was just the comforting embrace of sleep, still within reach if he let succumbed back to it. 

His dad wasn't the best at arguing the case for doing otherwise. Senior year of high school was comprised many mornings of him groaning and grunting at Ted's unsuccessful attempts to coax him out of bed, until finally he would say, "Well, buddy, if you're not feeling well... then it's okay, just rest up. I'll see you after work, okay?"

Until finally missed mornings led to missed days, leading to _if you keep this up, you won't graduate, let alone go to Columbia_, which is of course the point that Ted enlisted the help of one Julia Wicker, until she was getting him out of bed in the morning—both literally, and because he was, you know, wildly in love with her. 

Some things change, but also some never do.

"Wakey wakey eggs and bakey," Julia calls from the other side of the door. "That's as in _bacon_."

That too, always helped.

The bed is soft. The room is charmed to be Quentin's perfect temperature (as in, on the cooler side) regardless of the sunlight streaming through the windows. Margo helped him with that. He could spend hours here, hidden away where his problems can't reach him, almost like they don't exist. There's no existential shit, no constant dread he's going to fail out of the one place he's ever found in his whole life that he actually wants to be in, no Alice, no _Eliot_...

Three loud raps to the door. "Quentin!" 

No matter what he did, there would always be a Julia, and any escape from it was fruitless. He learned that the very hard way in high school, when she shoved him in the shower with his PJ's still on because he refused to undress in front of her, as a ruse to make them late. There is no ruse-ing Julia: important life lesson.

He doesn't want to know what she would do now, with magic at her disposal.

"Just a minute!" he yells out, blearily finding a semi-clean shirt, and a who-knows, probably-fine-clean pair of jeans. He sniffs them both for good measure, and makes the executive decision to put them on.

Julia, of course, looks perfect when he yanks the door open, daintily stepping through the threshold as he gathers his messenger bag. With her blazer and crisp white blouse, she could be a health inspector. And by the pinched look on her face as she evaluates his room, he wouldn't pass.

But whatever. "I'm only humoring you for the elite breakfast food," he reminds her, as he has reminded her ever since she introduced him to the exclusive Knowledge lounge, with the best-tasting bacon that apparently Fogg had ordered in especially, and eggs and real bagels and the best coffee on campus by far. For whatever reason, food was the only thing that magic didn't improve, and the only thing he could say he missed from outside of Brakebills. So he wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to eat at the one place with food untouched by magic. 

(Unless, you know, Eliot had baked something. Which he hadn’t. Or, actually. Maybe he had these days, it's just that Quentin wouldn't know. But that's—he's not thinking about that.)

"Please, you're miserable without me," she says, with that special Julia Wicker smile, mischievous and adoring all at once. 

Yeah, that's kind of true. How did he ever survive without her? It feels unthinkable now, in the best way, like he has no idea how he'd functioned until the morning, not long ago, that he made himself walk up to her door. But there's no way he's telling her all of that, mostly because she does not need the ego boost, but also because she definitely fucking knows, she's _Julia. _

"No comment," he returns, not bothering to fight back his own smile, just to see way Julia drinks it up, expression brightening even more, and remember she'd be miserable without him too. 

Feeling generous, he extends his elbow towards her rather than waiting for her to slip her hands in the crook of his arm, like she normally would. She coos, like he's offering her luxury, and he snorts, embarrassed but pleased, as she snuggles close to him unabashedly. And, like always, he lets Julia lead the way, mostly so he can keep his head ducked, hair hiding his smile. So he doesn't see what Julia sees down the hall that makes her stop, and doesn't stop himself until he knocks into her.

"Julia, what the hell," he mutters, looking at her first, but her gaze is stuck staring in front of her, which is when he realizes Eliot is leaving his own room.

It's also apparently his first time he's leaving his room, from the way his tangled curls are askew, falling into his eyes, and he's wearing nothing but silky robe that even Quentin knows seriously needs to set an appointment with a steamer soon. 

This was the first time Quentin can think of where Eliot genuinely looked... messy. Not in control of how he was being seen. You know, like the rest of the world. And, though he never would have predicted it, Quentin hates this as much as he hates the still images of Eliot in his brain; hates that Eliot is human, that he isn't the hot and unfailingly put together man Quentin has been trying to convince himself was out of his league for weeks now. Because, wow, who'd have thought, Quentin wants this Eliot too, apparently he just wants every fucking version of Eliot, including the one currently struggling to lock his own door and cursing (not literally) the key.

Quentin needs to, uh, fucking go. "We need to go," Quentin hisses to Julia, because, you know, no man (or woman, er, _person_) left behind. 

Julia doesn't move, obviously, continuing to send death glares to Eliot while standing completely still. Quentin considers absolutely leaving her behind but that's when Eliot turns, sees them both, and jumps three feet in the air with a yelped, "Jesus Christ!" 

Eliot runs his fingers through his hair, rolling his shoulders back, the robe barely staying closed with the movement. Quentin looks at the floor, giving up on trying to get Julia to cease her stand-off. He just has to move as little as possible, like he's trying to stop a T-rex from biting his head clean off. 

Eliot has not Quentin's many years of experience with Julia, so he approaches and attempts to make contact. 

"Can I help you, miss?" he says, stilted, only tentatively employing politeness. Slow, but still friendly. Charming. Fuck, it's charming. Eliot is so relentlessly fucking charming.

"Nope," Julia says. 

"All right then, great talk." Then, looking past her, he looks over at Quentin. "Morning, Q."

Oh God. This is happening to him. _Seriously_? This is seriously happening to him? 

"Yeah, uh, hi."

The silence that follows feels heavy, unbearably awkward. It has to be the novelty, for Eliot, of Quentin not pretending everything is completely normal and okay. But - Quentin doesn't have the energy. Maybe after bacon he can muster some up, and play the part of _good, normal friend Quentin_ well enough that Eliot will chalk it up to a shitty morning mood. God knows he's dealt with plenty of those from Quentin. It's still a monumental task, to not jerk his head up and say, _God, sorry, I'm just exhausted_, and spark up some playful banter, and make everything easy again, just in case not doing it costs him Eliot forever, which somehow is even worse—

Somewhere in his spiral, Julia comes back to him. She takes her hand from where it'd be gripping Quentin's arm, sliding it down until it clasps Quentin's hand firmly. 

"We're going," she says, resolute and cold, and weirdly, Quentin loves her so much in that moment. He squeezes her hand back and, not able to help himself, looks up through his lashes at Eliot. "Knowledge Brunch."

Arms folded, Eliot's lips have pulled into a mean smirk, eyes slowly taking in both of them. The way Eliot looks when he thinks he's figured you out - so calculating and final that you're like, _shit, he probably has. He probably sees me the way I don't even see me._ Eliot always made him feel like he knew him better than Quentin knew himself. Just... you know. Usually in a good way. Mostly in a good way. 

Until now, in a good way.

"Adorable." The smirk puckers to a sweet little pout, like the two of them really are so _precious_. "You kids have fun." 

It's—it's all in the tone. Eliot is fucking smart with his words. Unfailingly selective. He knows exactly what to say, exactly, and exactly how to say it, to achieve maximum results. There's no mistaking what he means, not when Eliot wants you to know what he means. 

It’s awful. There was a time where even when he would bear witness to Eliot's analytical glances to other people, and Quentin had begun to think it would never be turned on him. Not when Eliot had taken him by the arm and shown him around campus, rescuing him from Penny, from the mess with Alice and Charlie, from himself. It was—insane to believe but what else could Quentin believe other than that he was too special, too dear, too much the person he could see Eliot seeing him as, in fond looks and delighted smiles? The person who was tucked into the side not occupied by Margo, in those bright, surreal weeks? 

He’s. Really tired. He hates mornings. He's starting to wish he slept through this one.

“Come on Jules." 

He doesn't wait for Julia this time, walking off, trusting that she'll follow. He just... can't be here. Can't be here and stare at Eliot's wild, cold grin any longer. What can he say—when he's being a weak piece of shit, you can expect follow through. That's the Quentin Coldwater guarantee.

Julia looks bewildered for a moment, then nods, walking with him. Her hand clasps his again. 

“Quentin—”

That's Eliot. For some unknown, fucking reason. And for some unknown, fucking reason - well, Quentin knows why and it's because, say it with him: he's a weak piece of shit - Quentin looks back. Right into Eliot's face - sweetly confused, quietly upset. 

He feels Julia's gaze on his face as they head out, sees it from the corner from his eye, but he holds his breath until he leaves the Cottage. Can't think until he's out of there. Just needs—out.

The door bursts open to reveal the beautiful day Quentin had only got a glimpse of in his room; the warmth, the trees, glittering sunshine coming through the leaves. There's a gentle breeze that rustles through them, and through Quentin and Julia, and Quentin finally inhales—long and relieved. 

He turns to Julia. She's still watching him with that wary expression. Like she doesn't know whether he's going to run into the woods screaming, or curl up on the floor, or stand exactly where he is and tug his hair out. Or maybe—he's projecting a little. That's just how he feels. His heart is kind of... racing, just slightly. Beating hard enough that it's drawing his attention away from everything else. 

"You okay?"

"I'm... mad," he says slowly. "Oh my God, I'm pissed. I'm so pissed. I'm _so_ pissed. At _Eliot_."

"Okay," Julia says, eyes wide as she nods, encouraging. "And that's—uh, good? Or—"

"I mean, I have a complete fucking right to be pissed, right? I'm _allowed_."

"Of course," Julia says automatically. Fervently. "God, Q, you—you should be _furious_."

Fuck, and he is, he's getting really riled up now, fucking Eliot, fucking—fucking _upset_, with _Quentin—_like Quentin wasn't_—_like _Eliot_ hadn't—

The swirl of anger turns the thoughts stop being coherent. Quentin _vibrates_ with it, letting it course through him and fucking—take over. Then the strangest thing happens. Quentin starts laughing. 

Like hard. Like really hard. The kind of laughter that—you know shouldn't be happening? Like at a sleepover, when it's way past the time you're supposed to be up, and suddenly it occurs to you to laugh, it runs through your body randomly, and the more you try to stop yourself, the more you just laugh anyway? The kind of that makes everyone else at the sleepover mad at you, because you’re gonna make the parents come in and tell everyone to be quiet when you’re the only one not being quiet. It pours out of Quentin. 

Julia's _I'm Worried About You_ face comes back.

“Q?” 

“I mean,” he says, gasping, "it's just—all of this is fucking insane, isn't it? That—I got a girlfriend who was smart and _insanely hot_, and like _even more i__nsanely_, I fucked that up because of—a crush I had on my friend, the first fucking friend I made at _magical grad school_ and who _had a boyfriend_ and—and—then it takes accidentally having a threesome with them for me to realize, like, who I actually wanna be with, and after my first real relationship blows up and I finally, for the first time in my life, actually pluck up the nerve to _ask them out_ instead of _pining away_ like a _loser_—”

At this, Julia grimaces a little, but Quentin's in too deep—

"—and even though, even though I had the most spectacular sex of my life, with the funniest, most—charismatic and charming person who somehow still wants to be around _me_, turns out: it's all in my head, it's just me and my stupid fucking head like always, making shit up about what—what I mean to people..."

Ugh, and he's crying. With a fierce, panicked sniff, he throws his hands on his eyes, as if Julia couldn't tell until that moment. As if he's saving himself some embarrassment by hiding his crumbled face. 

A less neat thing about Quentin is: he's very good at telling himself he's fine, when he's really not. 

"Q..." Julia's stepped closer, pulling his hands away.

"I'm fine," he says weakly, taking in shaky breaths. He's not entirely lying. He does feel on the other side of something now. "I—I'm sorry, I just... I've kind of been—trying really hard? To keep up appearances and not let myself go crazy but..." He laughs again. "You can't take the crazy out of the Quentin, I guess."

"Quentin," she says, sharp, but soft. "Don't. I meant what I said. You should be pissed. You should feel whatever you want to feel. And I think you should feel sad too. Q, absolutely be as sad as you fucking want."

"But I'm _so_ sad," he says, going for a light chuckle, but it—comes out different. Tired and hoarse.

Julia hardens. She groans. "Ugh, I wanna kick his ass so bad."

"You can't fight my battles for me forever," he grumbles, when really he wants to say, _I don't want you two to fight_. 

"Why not?" She takes his hand, pulling him along. "I'm so good at it."

"I don't know—something about, uh, maturing? Facing fears and obstacles? Growing from the experience?"

"Sounds boring," she says, sing-song. 

_Yeah, it really fucking is,_ he thinks, but just scoffs instead. 

She gets the message, making a conversational diversion. "Can I still ply you with breakfast foods?"

"I draw the line at you feeding me."

"Ugh, you're no fun."

*

Julia had agreed to not fighting his battles for him, but apparently walking him to his room doesn't fall under that. He argues the whole fucking way back, even as he's happily buzzed with the company, the coffee, the _mimosas_ and Fogg's bacon that he _doesn't need a fucking chaperone_.

When the Cottage is in view, he walks faster, trying to get ahead of her, but Julia ran track, because of course she did, so it's not enough until he uses measly telekinesis to swing the door open and put it between them—even then, only because it takes her by surprise. 

"You're _welcome_ for _your delicious breakfast_," she yells on the other side.

"_Thank you_, now _see you later Jules,_" he says emphatically, hearing her little huff before she walks off. Quentin leans against the door, sighing. 

"Trouble in paradise?"

He can't really see Eliot. Mostly what he can see is Eliot's long, long legs, stretched out across the coffee table. His head is facing away from the door, on the couch. Like looking at Quentin is... beneath him, or something. Or too boring, even though he's the one sitting in silence, drinking, alone, staring forward at the wall. Apparently that's more interesting than even glancing Quentin's way.

"Sure, Eliot," he says, no patience for... whatever it is that Eliot's trying right now.

_That_ gets his attention, which is classic. Just deign to ignore Eliot a little bit and he'll come running. Of course, Quentin wants the exact opposite right now. 

"Wait, Q, Quentin—"

"_What_, Eliot?" Quentin turns and has a drink thrust in his hand. 

"What's this?"

"A margarita."

"I can see that," Quentin says dully. "Is there a reason you have one?"

"Well it's for you."

"Jesus—I mean _why_?"

Eliot blinks. "I—You like them."

Quentin has told Eliot exactly one time that he likes margaritas, and it was the afternoon he almost-but-didn't get kicked out after getting caught with Alice, trying to contact her dead brother. Eliot had actually been the one to smooth over the situation, apparently having, in his own words, "a lot of pull with Henry". 

(Fogg _firmly _denies this, saying it was Julia speaking for Quentin's character that saved him from expulsion.)

_Not the first time Quentin's dumb pursuit of a crush had almost ruined his life, but by far the worst. The shock and relief coursed through him all the way to Cottage, where the sight of Eliot and Margo cackling over Eliot magically sparking up the grill stalled him. It was too much. He was staying, he was going to continue to learn magic, and he had these unreal, new people in his life who quite possibly could be something one might call 'friends'. With him._

_It was too much. This wasn't—real. Couldn't be. Quentin's life never—could never be like_ this_—_

_"Quentin!" Eliot called out when he spotted him, waving, like maybe he thought Quentin had missed them. Like he possibly could. _

_Margo yelled his name too, slight frown like, _what are you doing, all the way over there? 

_"Get over here sad sack!" _

_Quentin huffed a laugh. Rolling through his eyes to disguise the painful happiness he felt. _

_"Let me put on some dry clothes," he said, going round the back to drop his messenger back in one of the chairs. The rain had already soaked them most of the way through. _

_"Or—better yet, just take those off." Eliot pulled down his sunglasses to wink at him. _

_"Uh, that's the plan, Eliot," he said, trying for a sarcastic tone even as he could feel his cheeks burn; could see Eliot notice with a grin. _

_"Hm, shame. If I can't change your mind I can't promise your burger will be rare."_

_"I like mine well-done anyway," Quentin threw out, smiling, feeling devious._

_"Philistine." Eliot was smirking back. _

_"Jesus Christ, a bitch needs to be drunker for this," said Margo, which didn't make a ton of sense to Quentin at the time._

_"For burgers?" he asked, genuinely, and she barked out a laugh._

_"Sure, honeybunch." She pinched his cheek._ Hard. 

_"Ow! Margo!"_

_Eliot cackled, then harder when Quentin glared at him, holding one hand to his face._

_"Stop picking on baby," he chided, not sounding like he was standing up for Quentin at all, as he held one arm out, drawing Quentin close. And as always, the word 'baby' made Quentin's spine shiver. _

_Still, couldn't let Eliot know that, much less_ Margo_. "Ugh, you guys are so weird," he said, pushing away as his stomach fluttered. Baby. Baby baby baby. "I'll be right back."_

_When he made his back outside, Margo was eyeing the burgers as Eliot laid down a quilt. Over them was a magic bubble, keeping out the rain. He snapped his fingers in a tut Quentin couldn't recognize that stretched out the fabric, making it taut and firm before he laid down the buns, sauces, snacks and drinks. So careful, and meticulous. Eliot always was. _

_Quentin knelt on the edge of it, wary of disturbing the arrangement. It looked like a picnic in a magazine, too perfect to be sat on and eaten by normal humans. Not that Quentin had ever been normal in his life. _

_"You—" Eliot said, biting back on a smile. "It's charmed to not knock over. If you try, you'll only get a bruise. Otherwise it'll just move out of your way. Sit wherever you want."_

_"Oh cool," Quentin breathed, because it was, but that still didn't solve the problem of how exquisite it all looked. Including Eliot. He looked—really good. Also like something out of a catalog. Still not wanting to shift the arrangement, he opted for the empty space beside Eliot._

_"No shoes," Eliot tutted gently. "Bad Quentin."_

_"Oh!" Quentin said, flushed, rushing to take them off when the laces undid themselves, slipping from his feet without him touching them. He whipped his head round and Eliot was there, one hand in the air, fingers slowly stopping their movements._

_"Thanks," he said roughly. "You know I could—myself..."_

_"You don't let me have any fun," Eliot laughed and it broke the spell a little, Quentin chuckled too. "Relax, let me be a good host. Don't make it weird."_

_"Just because you do it with magic doesn't make it any weirder when you take off my shoes for me."_

Baby_, he thinks. _Baby.

_"It's all to protect the quilt." Eliot gestured, grandiose, at the spread before them. “I can’t stand dirt, Quentin. I’m a very neat person.”_

_"Sure." _

_Then, still in the interest of conserving space, he mirrored Eliot's position. Leaning on one elbow, facing Margo as she drank from her martini glass, his legs stretched out. It brought him closer to Eliot. The smell of the burgers started to waft towards them. Quentin closed his eyes. _

_It felt—nice. Sitting close. The hum of magic, the sound of Eliot's steady breathing. _

_"Hey," Eliot said. "So, like, for real. Glad you're still with us. If that wasn't obvious." It was surprisingly gentle. The seriousness of it moved Quentin. They—had a mostly playful friendship. Often Quentin had wondered how much he should actually... believe of what Eliot said—the flirting, but also the kindness. The taking of Quentin securely under his wing, virtually no questions asked. It had taken a while to shake off the dread in his stomach; the feeling that this was a joke being played on him. It had taken Eliot to, time and again, prove that feeling wrong. _

_"Yeah, me too," Quentin said, and meant it so much. Face turned up at the sun, he grew bold. "Also saves you a trip on the train into the city to find me."_

_Eliot's promise. Finding Quentin. Not telling him about magic, but lifting his spirits by—_

_(Quentin, eyes blissfully shut, didn't see Eliot startle. The way he stared down at Quentin, the way he searched his expression—hunger and hope and surprise rippling over Eliot's face. _

_The way he looked back down at the drink in his hand, tentatively throwing out, "Please, I'd take a cab," and the pleased smile it brought when Quentin threw his head back with carefree laughter.)_

_"What does a guy have to do to get a bloody mary around here? Actually get kicked out?" _

_"Pour one," Eliot said, and he snorted at Quentin's lazy whine. _

_Squinting down, he saw Eliot doing just that for him. "Thanks," he grinned. Eliot just hummed, looking out across the garden. _

_Margo kicked off her heels as she placed the plate of burgers down. "None of them are well-done because we don't fuck around, time to grow up Coldwater."_

_He tried them. They were fine. Margo was furious, trying to force feed him more until he agreed it was better, and Quentin looked back at Eliot, who watched them, smile behind his knuckles as he lounged on one arm. "You're no help," said Quentin - without heat, too warm from Eliot's attention._

_"Just enjoying the view." _

_The afternoon flowed away. Quentin had a book in his bag that he couldn't be bothered to walk over and get, and he also didn't need it. He couldn't remember the last time he was so content just sitting in silence with people, listening to the breeze. Summer wasn't quite done, and even though it wasn't a vacation—he literally had homework he should be doing, now that he was officially still enrolled—it had that same easy, bright quality. Like going to the shore with his dad and Julia, except they all had their nose in their respective books. But it was still quiet, a lack of commitment to socialization, to ensuring conversation never stopped flowing. When they turned 18, probably one of the last time he took them (because after that Julia had her fabulous Columbia friends and her hunky Columbia boyfriend James and Quentin would tag along with whatever they did that summer, usually having a miserable, sexually fraught time) they even convinced Ted to sneakily buy them a—_

_"Oh my God," Quentin said, slapping his hand to his face._

_"What?" said Eliot._

_"You know what would be fucking_ amazing _right now?" Quentin groaned._

_He didn't open his eyes but he felt Eliot shift slightly. Over the course of their hazy afternoon, Quentin had given up on beingvertical. His head was on the blanket, the top pressed against the side of Eliot's thigh just so. He didn't mean to be touching Eliot but it happened. He froze but Eliot didn't have a reaction at all, so he had figured it must have been fine, and didn't move away. If he had to guess, he'd say he felt that Eliot had sat up straighter, but actually checking would be too much effort. _

_"What?" said Margo._

_"A margarita," Quentin breathed out, tasting the memory of it, the craving sweet and sharp and perfect icy cold. _

_"You are such a little Jersey rat."_

_"What does_ that_ mean?" Quentin frowned._

_"Nothing at all," Eliot said lightly, smoothing Quentin's hair away from his brow. If it was meant to be a distraction tactic, it only_ kind of _worked. Quentin lolled his head towards Margo, who stuck her tongue out at him. God, Quentin actually liked her a lot. Liked them both. He still wasn't used to liking new people, or new people liking him, which was—he understood, a weird quality to have, like, it should be something he didn't cling to with such fervor, but other than Julia, his friends were mostly Julia's nicer friends—and James, of course. But people liking_ him? _Wanting_ him _around? What a concept. He never wanted to lose it._

_"You guys are such coastal elites," Quentin sighed dramatically, settling back down to his previous spot, once again brushing against Eliot, who did stiffen this time. Worried, he popped one eye open, finding Eliot staring off in the distance, looking a little panicked himself. Quentin stole a glance at Margo, who was downing her drink with wide eyes, also looking suspicious. The two of them shared a glance, something else Quentin didn't understand, and only served as reminder that he was an outsider, an interloper even, a weirdo who couldn't even make an innocuous joke without shoving his foot in his mouth in the process— _

_—before Eliot, looked back down again, eyes soft and warm—and oh, did Quentin imagine what had just happened? How could Eliot look at him like that, so easy and friendly and visibly glad that he was there, if it had actually happened?—and said, "We don't mix margaritas with burgers, little Q. Could I interest you in a very bougie beer?"_

_He could_.

So now he has a margarita in his hand. Because there's no burgers around, probably. Eliot is really strict with his pairings. Quentin's sure there's some value to it, otherwise people wouldn't have, like, invented the concept but_—_is it really so fucking devastating if he has red wine when Eliot's making fish? He likes red wine. He doesn't even really like fish all that much. But he went along with it, every time, every pairing Eliot loftily explained to Quentin. Indulging in Eliot's appalled performance. Because Quentin's an idiot. 

The kind of idiot whose heart skips a beat at the sight of a margarita that Eliot made, just for him.

"Thanks," Quentin says, taking it from him properly. It's_—_still cold. Did he just make this? Or, probably_—_it must have been kept cold with magic. Right? Right? 

"Please, um, join me?" Eliot stands behind the bar, gesturing to the empty seat in front of him.

"For what?" Quentin asks, eyes narrowed. "I've had breakfast."

At that Eliot, for whatever reason, smiles fondly, if a tad exasperated. "I know. I mean, I would have been happy to feed you, if only to steal you away from the Knowledge crowd, but_—_I just want to... hang out. I swear. It just feels like it's been a while."

Quentin blinks. "I_—_" _didn't think you'd noticed._ He hadn't acted like he had. "Yeah, I, uh, guess not. You wanna... hang out? Now?"

"If it's not an imposition," Eliot says, cool smirk not twisting quite right. Is he... nervous? No, probably frustrated. That would track more with him and Quentin, these days. "I have to clean the glasses so I won't be my illustrious, dazzling self but. If you're free..."

"No, uh, no imposing," Quentin can't help saying, wanting to comfort Eliot if that's what he needs, or at the very least give him some kindness. "I mean, I'm pretty buzzed already but. I can hang out... I guess."

"Great," Eliot says, smiling a little easier. He looks pointedly at the stool, and this time Quentin sits. 

Placing his drink in front of him, he takes a delicate sip. He figured Eliot would be making his own drink, or cleaning the glasses like he said, but he looks up and locks eyes with Eliot, who's watching him, and Quentin kind of forgets to breathe, even if he can't tell what the hell is going on in Eliot's expression. Quentin swallows awkwardly, almost choking. 

"Is it good?" Eliot asks. 

It's the best fucking margarita he's ever fucking had. "Yeah." Fuck, his stupid heart is racing. Fuck, why didn't he just go upstairs? _Fuck_, why was Eliot _waiting for him?_ With his _favorite cocktail_?

Eliot breaks the eye contact first. "Better than the Knowledge lounge?" he says, supposedly surveying the spirits shelf, but there's an odd quality to his tone that Quentin doesn't know what to do with.

Is it Julia? Does Eliot just not like Julia? 

"Oh I_—_they don't really drink there_—_I mean we had mimosas because, you know, brunch."

"Classic brunch."

"Right! So_—_but yeah, I guess margaritas aren't a brunch cocktail? Not that_—_you know, if we had like, Mexican brunch then it'd be_—_so. I don't know about... their margaritas. But Julia says Fogg also gives them access to like, special gin and shit for the Knowledge-exclusive alumni events, and she can invite me to some of them so... maybe I'll. Try one then. A margarita. If they have them, I mean, and not just the gin stuff. Obviously margaritas don't have... gin."

"Obviously."

"They have tequila. I mean_—obviously_ you know that because you, uh, made me one. But yeah."

_What is he fucking saying_? 

Quentin had been rambling to fill the silence but apparently it was in vain, because Eliot lets it stretch as he slowly pulls down the glasses, one by one, for polishing. Quentin looks at his profile_—_his stupidly elegant, handsome profile_—_seemingly lost in thought. Like he didn't hear a word Quentin said, and Quentin _wilts_. He has no idea what he's doing here, what's going on, what this fucking weird ass conversation they're_—_

"And how is dear Julie?" Eliot says, out of nowhere. Clear. Maybe a little too loud. But maybe it's just Quentin's surprise at the question, the drastic change of subject. Not that the subject they were on was particularly thrilling, he's not surprised at Eliot changing it as much as he doesn't know why he asking about _Julia_. 

Then, once he's processed the question, and hearing _Julie_ in his mind, says: "Oh my God, I dare you to call her that to her face."

"Maybe not the best idea," Eliot says. "From this morning, I'm thinking she's... not my biggest fan."

"Oh!" Shit. "Oh! I don't_—_know if I'd say _that_, exactly. We've just_—_you know, we've been friends since we were kids and I'm_—_well, you know, _me—_so she's just..."

"Possessive?" Eliot offers, poisonously bright.

Quentin frowns. "No... protective."­

Eliot grins wider, _acidic_. "Ah, and she thinks you need protection from me?" Barely sounds like a question. Eliot doesn’t want an answer.

_Well. You did break my heart a little, you jackass_. Or are they really going to carry on acting like that didn't happen? "Julia thinks I need protection from everything," he says quietly, in lieu of that, or anything close to it. Eliot stills, glancing away from Quentin, looking pensive. _What are you thinking_? Quentin wants to ask, but that's_—_impossible. How could he ever ask that of Eliot? Eliot, who conceals what he's thinking, so often. Asking in itself would be a clear breach of privacy. "It's a little_—annoying_, sometimes, but she means well. That’s all. She’s just trying to be a good friend."

“Sounds like maybe you're a little more than _good friends_, Q.”

There’s something cosmically hilarious about Eliot saying this, about Julia. When Julia had said something very similar about Eliot, not long ago. When it had seemed _even to Quentin _like he and _Eliot_ might be _a little more_ than _best friends_. Quentin swallows around the ache of complicated emotion it brings up. “She's like a sister to me,” he said, happy to channel his emotion into that statement. His gratefulness for Julia hasn't wavered, even if she is a tad on the overbearing side. That’s just Julia, in all things. Quentin is very glad to... bear her. "If that's what you mean."

Eliot pauses in wiping his glasses, so quickly that Quentin wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been paying attention. But Quentin is always paying attention. "So you two_—_you're not_—_I mean to say, she definitely gave a different impression... earlier. About the nature of your... relationship."

Quentin laughs. A bitter, hollow sound. Seriously? Eliot is going _here_? Now? 

"I can confirm I am not dating Julia. Nor have I ever," Quentin says, imbuing it with as much petty, bratty feeling as he fucking wants.

"Ah."

"And I mean_—_not that it's any of your, uh, _business—_"

"Q—"

_"_I'm not dating, uh, anyone right now. Obviously. Or like, obviously to _you_, I would have thought."

Because that’s the fucking _worst_—is Eliot really _judging_ him? Does he think—whatever, it doesn’t matter, but also _fuck him_ for making Quentin’s hope flare up even a little, that Eliot might be _jealous_—

"Okay," Eliot says quietly. "I'm sorry for_—_uh. Well. It doesn’t matter what. I'm just sorry."

And Quentin deflates like a stupid, rash balloon. What is he doing? Eliot_—_turned him down, in actually the nicest possible way he could have, nicer than anyone else had, in Quentin's entire romantic… career. He's going to pick a fight with _Eliot_? He's going to get mad at _Eliot—_beautiful, lovely Eliot_—_for not wanting _him_? Just because_—_just because Eliot had fucked him, had _enjoyed_ it (or, you know, he came, at least), doesn’t mean he owed Quentin a thing. Then or now. And Quentin would never want him to. Eliot deserves happiness in whatever form he chooses to accept, to go after. Jesus, Mike had _just_ broken up with him. And Mike_—_had thoughts, about why it needed to end, and_—_that was complicated for Quentin to think of now, of_—_

_—Mike's resigned smile. “Just… don’t let him go. He’ll try and make you, but don’t let him.” The way he had patted Quentin on the head, a tad condescending the way Mike lowkey always was, but kind too, like he understood, like he was seeing something he once was, in the two of them, in Quentin and—_

_—_Eliot. Eliot had... loved him, maybe. No, definitely. Eliot had loved Mike. Really loved.

And Quentin remembers Eliot in love. What it had looked like.

_It was one of Eliot's earlier dates with Mike. He'd been so uncharacteristically nervous, just that one time. He'd even resorted to asking Quentin for help, given Margo was in Ibiza, and even more so that she was stubbornly not supporting this endeavor of Eliot Wants A Boyfriend. Or, Eliot _Has_ A Boyfriend And Very Much Wants to Keep Him, At All Costs._

_Usually Quentin didn't indulge Eliot in these sorts of things either, but he'd wanted Eliot to relax. He had a complicated knot in his chest at the idea of Eliot going on a date—a knot he wouldn't come to unravel until later, much later, with Eliot's mouth opening on his—but he wanted Eliot to enjoy it. He deserved to enjoy it. In the time he had known Eliot, Eliot had been dazzling, welcoming and above all a really good friend, in a way he slowly picked up hadn't exactly been the case for every other first year. He'd seen something in Quentin—maybe loneliness, maybe a brokenness—and tended to it dutifully, without question._

_So Quentin teased him. "That one's nice," he said, and Eliot's eye lit up, with relief._

_"Which one?" he said, desperate, and Quentin smiled, fond, not believing that he fell for it. He kept pointing out different vests until eventually Eliot caught on, and smiling like he was surprised and proud of Quentin for making a joke, throwing all of the vests in Quentin's face. Quentin took it proudly, patiently, more pleased than anything at having loosened Eliot up a bit._

_"Honestly... all vests look the same to me," Quentin said, and Eliot had looked up to the sky, as if in askance for a merciful death to save him from the vest-less lunatic before him. "But... I don't—I mean, I think you look good regardless of what you wear, Eliot. Mike definitely feels the same. I wouldn't worry too much about it." _

_It was out of Quentin's mouth before he could really think about what the—what the fuck he was saying. It was... well it was_ true_, Eliot was attractive and didn't need Quentin to tell him that. Obviously Quentin thought so, just like every other eye-bearing human on the planet, but where the hell had_ that_ come from? His ears burned, feeling stupid. _

_Eliot had gone quiet, watching Quentin carefully. Then he shook his head, sorting through his shirts again. Quentin went back to his book before he could say something even worse._

_He'd thanked Quentin, for his help, and Quentin had been about to point out that he'd been less than no help until he saw the look on Eliot's face_ _—vulnerable, earnest and yeah, actually thankful. He thought again about how Margo was pretending none of this was happening and Quentin was maybe the only friend who he could talk about Mike with. "No problem, Eliot I—any time," he said, stilted, surprising himself with how much there was he wanted to say but didn't have the words for. But he managed so say what he meant, truly. Any time. Eliot could always count on him._

_Eliot had just smiled, in this way like there was some private thing on his mind, not meant for Quentin. Like if Quentin asked, he would keep that same expression, shaking his head and saying, “Oh, it’s nothing.” So Quentin didn’t ask. But Quentin helped Eliot scoop up his vests, dizzy with the scent of Eliot coming off them. It was strong, but nice. Distinctive. Quentin could probably pick it out from a hypothetical smell line-up—or, you know, identify Eliot from a regular line-up, eyes closed, sniffing around._

_"Just throw them on the bed," Eliot had said, still smiling, and he remembered. The date. Mike. Eliot so in love that he didn't care that his vests were going to wrinkle. Quentin did just that, staring at the pile. When he turned back to Eliot, he was watching Quentin, looking knowing and secret. It took the breath out of Quentin. Eliot—in love. He must have been, to be looking like that. So... happy. Quentin ached, a little oddly, in a way he couldn't explain._

_"Wow, so you... I mean, this is really real for you, then."_

_Eliot's face dropped, something like panic coming over his face. "What do—_ _what are—"_

_Shit,_ Quentin had thought, _because maybe Eliot wasn't the type for... labels, or whatever. _

_"I just mean—I hope it goes well, for you and Mike. I want you to be happy, El." _

_This... seemed like a neutral enough statement. Quentin was proud of managing to get something out so_ _innocuous given how his blood felt like it was burning in his arms, his chest an empty thing save for the wild heart tumbling around. Maybe it was like Margo - maybe he was afraid he'd lose Eliot. Maybe he just was lonely, wanted a boyfriend too. Maybe—_

_Eliot's face, a dark cloud, stopped his thoughts. He couldn't figure it out. How he'd managed to say the wrong thing, once again. And there it was, that fear again—that he would lose Eliot. But not because he was too busy with his hot, blond boyfriend who was an alumnus and had a fancy job in Manhattan, but because Quentin had a big dumb mouth, always saying the big dumb wrong thing. _

_"I—" Quentin said. Eliot chewed his lip. Eliot was going to say something, Quentin was sure, but seeing the naked shock and vulnerability on Eliot's face, underneath all that confusing, complicated frustration, struck fear in him and he cut him off. "I have to go. Study. But, um. Have a nice time."_

_Eliot blinked, and the calm, collected Eliot Waugh resurfaced. "Thank you Quentin," he said, and Quentin nodded, certain that whatever had just past between them was imaginary, a figment of Quentin's overthinking. Eliot was going on a date. Quentin was— going to study, and not think about anything else. even as Eliot's cologne lingered on his arms._

_One last thing. _

_“The green one,” he said to the hallway, terrified to look in Eliot’s face, finally on the verge of realization about himself. About himself and— “Your—you should go with the green vest. It's... nice. I like it."_

_It matched Eliot's eyes. But Quentin didn't say that. He just shut the door._

He remembers. Eliot in love is sweet. He's nervous. He's as attentive as he is insecure. And that’s without all of his regular brilliance—his wit and his face and the longest legs in the world. He _looks_ like he’s good at sex, and Quentin can confirm that he really fucking is, but he’s also good at just—looking at someone. At kissing, maybe more than anything.

Of course Quentin fell for him. There isn't a soul that could fault him for that. For wanting it too. It was stupid, but understandable. 

To want something so much you don't see that you can't have it.

Quentin sighs. "No, no I'm sorry. Sorry. It's not your_—_I mean _I'm—_shit."

"It's okay."

"I mean it's not, but. Yeah."

"I_—_I really want _us_ to be okay, Q." Eliot's voice is soft. Hurt. 

"Me too," Quentin says urgently. Eliot smiles tightly in response. "I_—_I hate this, the weirdness, I just want to_—_"

"_—_skip past it?" Eliot laughs, a little strained, but fond too. "Not sure we can."

"Why not?" Quentin demands, suddenly filled with energy and sureness. "I mean, shit, who says we have to follow some play-by-play and go through an awkward phase that we both hate, when we can just_—_be friends again, like we always were."

Quentin pauses, feeling suddenly presumptuous. 

"Right?" he says, uncertainty creeping back in. Who knows how Eliot actually felt about him. Maybe _friends_ is too—strong. He never really sees Eliot with anyone other than Margo, and he’d never claim to see himself as important as she is to Eliot. "We were? Friends? And you, uh, want to be? Too?"

"Of _course_," Eliot says. He reaches forward for Quentin's hands, and Quentin, too surprised to move back in time, lets it happen and jolts, filled with terror and excitement at the touch of Eliot's fingers on his. It's a flash to_—Quentin's room, Eliot's hands on him, on his cock, his hips, his_ face_, making sure Quentin kept looking right at him, looking at Eliot look at him—_

"Fuck, sorry," Eliot says, pulling them away and Quentin feels relief as much as he wishes he could keep hold of them. Eliot's perfect, elegant fingers. 

_Stop it_, Quentin scolds himself. 

"I want to," Eliot says, voice low and serious as his eyes go soft, something vulnerable and raw. Definitely not helping with _stop pining after Eliot_. "I want to, Q, I'm just not sure it's a case of... wanting it. Or that it's that simple, I mean."

"Why the fuck not?" 

"Q..."

"Eliot, you_—_you mean too fucking much to me." His voice goes hoarse, unintentional and too raw, too goddamn raw. "I_—_wish_—_"

_I could take it back? Re-do it?_

Both are true. The latter in more ways than one. But they’re true.

"It's happened, and we can't take it back but_—_why does it have to change everything?"

"It doesn't," Eliot says, but it doesn't_—_sound like he's agreeing. "Or it doesn't _have_ to, I guess."

Quentin nods. "Exactly! Like, why does it have to have _control_ over us? We're not fucking... animals."

Eliot lets out a wild, almost hysterical laugh, but it sounds like... he's coming around to Quentin's argument. Quentin chuckles back, breathless and relieved. 

"Right? Okay! So! You agree?" Quentin tries not to sound too eager. Probably fails miserably, but he doesn't care, not when Eliot is looking at him like that. The easy, affectionate way he's always looked at him. And right at him, locked in. Quentin's been told he makes, uh, _intense_ eye contact sometimes, but Eliot's never shied from it, never even told him to _calm down, Quentin_. 

"I agree," he says. "Yeah. Fuck the awkward."

"Fuck it!" Quentin says, too loud, too excited, and it draws some glances from the other people in the Cottage. Fuck. He hadn't noticed more and more people filter downstairs. But Eliot just snickers and so that's what Quentin does too, somehow not embarrassed. Not if Eliot doesn't think it’s worth being embarrassed about. "We're, like, _above_ it."

"Totally above it." There's nothing tentative about Eliot's smile now. "We're too _evolved_ for it." 

God, this was... easy? So much easier than he thought. Which in itself could be suspicious, but Quentin chooses to believe Eliot's right. They're too evolved, their connection is too adult, even in the face of_—_

_—Eliot's breathing in his ear, the urgent sounds as he got closer and closer to the edge he was chasing, the one Quentin was letting him chase, inside him, the steady way he thrust up into Quentin like it was the only thing he needed, like_ he _was__ the only­­­­—_

_—_a weird, hazy mistake. A_—_admittedly sexy_—_little blip in the long, promised future of their friendship. Quentin doesn't have a lot of friends, so he definitely doesn't let go of them, not if he can help it. He's going to hang on to Eliot for as long as he can. Long into whatever life throws their way_—_whoever Eliot ends up with (probably some hot regent of a foreign land Quentin's never stepped foot in), Quentin's gonna be there. 

Smiling and evolved and happy for him. He will be. He _is_.

"Two regular, old, um..." Quentin frowns. 

"What?" Eliot stops, looking at him, bemused. 

"Fuck, I was going to make an evolution joke but... I can't think of one." Shit. Shocking that he has retained so little_—_maybe magic is taking up too much space in his brain.

Eliot laughs. "Very generous of you to assume I would have gotten it if you had."

"It'll come to me!"

"And I'll pretend to understand when the moment comes, now that I know that's what you'll be doing." 

“Now who's generous,” Quentin says wryly and Eliot shrugs one shoulder, all _well, you know me_. Quentin snorts, reaching for his margarita, and this time when he takes a sip, he says, "Fuck, this really is amazingly good, El.”

Which Eliot knows, of course. He doesn't need Quentin to tell him that, but he still looks pleased that he does, which makes Quentin glad he did. 

Quentin takes another sip of his drink, making sure to look up at Eliot and smile approvingly as he does, just to really drive the point home. Eliot swallows, wringing his hands.

"Come to a party," Eliot says.

Quentin chokes, just a little. "I—what?"

"I mean, uh. Please."

"You—I don't know, Eliot..." It's one thing to sit with Eliot, alone, and forget everything that’s happened. To let himself get lost in Eliot’s company.

It’s another thing to do that with… well, actual, other company. Particularly the other residents of the Cottage, who absolutely know what happened with Eliot-and-Quentin (more specifically: Eliot-and-Mike-and Quentin) even as they’re not like, talking to Quentin about it, obviously. No-one really does, which is fine. But parties—kind of require that, a little. He can’t just hang off Eliot’s sleeve the whole time—not only because that wouldn’t be fair to Eliot, but because then it would be _even more fucking obvious—_

"I'd like you to,” Eliot says gently. “You—they haven't been the same, without you. Not as fun."

Quentin scoffs, eyes darting away. "You realize literally no-one would put me and 'fun' in the same sentence."

"I would," Eliot says. Simple. Like it’s that simple. Like it’s not fucking _monumental_ that he says so. That he _thinks_ so—Quentin is _fun_.

Jesus. _Jesus_.

Okay. Fine. He can go to a party, he can do this. On—

“One condition.”

“Ooh.” Eliot leans forward on his forearms and in the process Quentin catches a whiff of the intoxicating mix of Eliot’s cologne, his shampoo, and whatever it is that uniquely just… comes off Eliot—

_—Quentin had buried nose where the smell was strongest, the skin where neck met shoulder, shutting his eyes, shutting everything out, Mike disappearing as Eliot said—_

“Q.” Eliot tilts his head to one side. “What are your terms?”

Quentin nods, resolute. "If Julia can come."

Eliot blinks, then laughs, but it’s unconvincing as fuck. Like if he acts like Quentin must be joking then Quentin will say that he is. "Q... I said _fun_. Maybe you missed that part. I usually characterize that as not being castrated in front of my classmates."

_Usually_, he says. Ugh, Eliot. “Julia won’t castrate you.”

“Hmm, I don’t think that’s something you can promise, dear Quentin. She certainly acts like she _wants_ to.”

"Us being cool is dependent on you and Julia being cool."

"Is it? I mean is it _really_?" he drawls.

"You both matter to me. What if I refused to hang out with Margo?"

"As if Margo would let that happen," Eliot says with a small smile and a minute shaking of his head. Eliot also tuts once, soft and disbelieving because, yeah, if Quentin once decided that he wasn’t spending time with Margo, she would absolutely storm the campus until she found where he was hiding (because he would have to _hide_), and drag him back by his ear and declare that they would be, like, going to a spa for the day, just to punish him for the _audacity_.

Quentin rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean,” he says, serious, and Eliot drops the even wider grin he’d been wearing, ready to keep egging Quentin on. His eyes roam over Quentin’s face and with great stubbornness Quentin makes himself not look away, as his cheeks burn.

“Fine,” he groans finally. “She can come. If she wants to come, she can come.”

Quentin shrugs, heart sighing in relief. “She will if I ask. Comes with the _protectiveness_ territory.”

“Well that’s not at all chilling.”

Quentin leans forward to smack Eliot’s arm. “I’ll look after you,” he says, which of course is the absolute wrong say to say, Quentin knows that as soon as it’s out of his stupid mouth. Eliot’s mouth, which is not stupid, opens and shuts resolutely, not saying anything at all.

This shouldn’t be _like this_—they should be able to talk without stumbling upon a conversational territory that reminds them of the fact that Quentin very much, just weeks ago, asked Eliot to go steady, after a really hot but ultimately disastrous hook up, and Eliot said, very reasonably: no.

Worse than Quentin’s brewing anxiety at having fucked up, at that way he _keeps fucking this up_, is whatever is happening on Eliot’s face. The shutting down, the unhappy purse of his lips, the way he probably is feeling bad about what is, really, just Quentin’s problem. This dumb crush he needs to just _get over_, and keeps making _Eliot’s_ problem. Eliot wants to be normal. Eliot is being _nice_. Eliot wants Quentin to _come to a party_, like before.

“I—uh, when?” Quentin throws out, one last-ditch attempt to steer them back to somewhere not-awkward.

Eliot blinks at him. “Excuse me?”

“When—party? Which party? I mean, when’s the next one?”

“Oh.” Eliot rolls his shoulders, looking a little more at ease. “No time like tonight, that’s what I always say.”

It’s true. He does. Quentin smiles. “Right. Sure. Cool, so I’ll—let Julia know.”

“You do that,” Eliot says, deliberately unenthused and Quentin chuckles, and takes another big gulp of the margarita, feeling inexplicably mischievous. Eliot smiles back, eyes a little narrowed, playfully, and just like that they’re back.

"You sure you don't want something to eat? The kitchen's free, I could whip something up, anything you like."

Quentin laughs. "No, uh, that's okay. I ate way more pancakes than is probably, like, medically advisable."

"I doubt that. You don't eat enough."

What the fuck? _What the fuck? _Quentin—has no fucking idea what to say to that. "I, uh. Okay." He smiles tightly, because he'll be damned if he lets things become awkward again. Eliot just—likes cooking. That's all. He likes cooking and showing off, and Quentin is the perfect guinea pig for anything Eliot could _whip up_ because anything more technical than a grilled cheese is more effort than Quentin would put in for himself. It's a case of choosing the easiest person to impress. Because Eliot likes impressing—generally! Everyone knows that.

"I'm still good though," he assures Eliot, who purses his lips, but nods. Normal. This is normal. They're still normal. 

“So I’ll, um, leave you to it? Sorry I—really do have to study.”

He really does. He could spend all afternoon here, watching Eliot work the cloth delicately over each glass, slice limes with precision but—

He shouldn’t do that. Not if they’re going to be normal. And he really does need to study.

“That’s okay,” Eliot says, nodding. Then, focusing again on the counter, he says, “I’ll, uh, see you tonight?”

“Yeah.” Quentin nods, taking a deep breath. Yeah. Maybe this will even be—what was it Eliot had said? Fun. Fun! Quentin remembers how to have that. The last times he had it were around Eliot, after all. Look at that. How convenient. “See you tonight.”

“Later.”

When Quentin reaches the middle of the stairs, he turns back, feeling eyes on him. Eliot has switched to checking inventory, whistling to himself as he turns each bottle to see their level of fullness. It’s a whole process; he’d explained it to Quentin once. Quentin had paid attention to hardly any of it, more fascinated with the care Eliot took. The way he was so committed to everyone’s good time, to having everything ready, the most dedicated of hosts. And more than anything Eliot’s… _everything_—the soft, private pitch of his voice, the delicate, subdued showmanship as he explained what each bottle was to Quentin, the absolute patience and ease of all of it. Like he’d known Quentin was enraptured. Like he’d _wanted_ Quentin to be—wanted Quentin’s on attention as much as he’d wanted Quentin’s.

It couldn’t have been Eliot, not when he’s in the middle of a task he actually gives a shit about, but no-one else in the Cottage is paying attention from what he can see. He chalks it up to your standard Quentin Coldwater paranoia. He’s always thinking people are looking at him; noticing him, when they’re not.

*

The party is not fun.

Well, it’s fun for lots of people, clearly. It’s just as vibrant and raucous as he’s been hearing from up in his room for weeks. Dancing and music and magic alcohol and loud, loud conversations.

You know, all the shit Quentin fucking hates.

Other than the magic alcohol. That’s fine. Quentin couldn't tell you what it tastes like, other than, impossibly, the _color pink_, but it's good. Makes _him_ feel good. kind of... _fluttery_, but maybe that's just the side effect of Eliot thrusting it in his hand, and leaving him with only a wink over his shoulder as he disappeared into the rest of the crowd. Quentin doesn't really mind that he left straight away. It means enough that Eliot thought of him, made him a drink, and then sought Quentin out. Feels like some of that normal they're both intent on getting back to. They're cool. Getting butterflies around Eliot, still, is cool. A work-in-progress at worst, and something he can definitely live with at best. Even if they're not strictly hanging out, but it's not exactly like Eliot is neglecting Quentin. He’s probably, just, you know—being a good host. The party’s only just started. Eliot will be overseeing his work, floating around. Unlike Quentin, he loves a party.

There’s someone else Quentin knows like that.

"Shut _up_," he hears Julia gasp from a few feet away from the corner he’s put himself in. _She_ was actually the one who was supposed to grab their drinks, from one of the trays Eliot usually leaves out so he doesn't actually have to be bothered about making them all at once (which is, again, why it means a lot that Eliot took it upon himself to... do that. He must have seen Quentin, just randomly, or maybe he was keeping tabs on him, which... whatever, like he said, Eliot is omnipresent, must keep tabs on everyone) but evidently got distracted on that very complicated quest. She's talking to Kady, who shockingly has detached long enough from Penny's hip, because he's nowhere to be found. Quentin remembers that something happened with the two of them at Brakebills South, but either it was bad or ended that way, which—hey, Quentin's definitely no stranger to those turn of events. 

Julia has both of her hands around Kady's, who is in the middle of showing her a tut, one Quentin doesn't recognize and neither does Julia, apparently. "Like this?" Julia says, taking her hands away and eyes focused on Kady's as she tries to mimic her. 

Kady isn't looking at Julia's hands. She's looking at Julia's face, like there's something surprising there. Or something... something saving her, somehow. "Yeah," she says. Then, seemingly coming back to herself, she blinks fast and laughs, grabbing Julia's hands again. "Wait, don't do that _inside_, are you insane?"

Julia pouts, then raising her eyebrows, she says, "Well, wanna go outside then?" 

It's weird, seeing Julia flirt. He knows it pretty intimately—obviously solely as a bystander, which brings up some awkward memories, tinged with adolescent pining he can remember feeling even if he can no longer relate to the feeling of it. And it’s been a while—not since James first came on the scene, at least. Once they were serious, Julia at least turned it down some notches—or maybe it was just in Quentin’s company, but James followed suit, either because he was told to (which wouldn’t surprise Quentin, if Julia had) or because he also sensed the shift.

(Frankly, James had always flirted with more Quentin anyway. He seemed to get a kick out of Quentin’s flustered sputtering. Julia thought it was weird, that they both were, and told them as much frequently, like Quentin had anything to do with it. James would just lean close to Quentin, and face her and say, “Babe, you’re just jealous,” hand firmly gripping Quentin’s shoulder.)

Quentin would say Julia’s flirting technique is pretty charming, though of course he’d be biased if he did—despite not experiencing it, he did spend a long time observing and wishing she’d turn it on him, if only once. She never manages to strike an even balance of ‘smooth but interested’. Julia just—doesn’t _do_ aloof. Or, more like she can’t. It’s just not in her system. So her come-ons are always just a little too eager to be _cool_.

But. She’s Julia. So it’s never _not _worked in her favor.

It’s why none of her “tips for flirting” are something that anyone else can implement, even as she would love to dole them out to her single girlfriends (like, friends who are girls, not—you know).

It’s also why Kady smirks, linking her pinkie with Julia’s before saying, “Let’s teach you some Battle Magic, Knowledge Girl.”

See? It works. It works every time.

Only then does Julia seem to remember Quentin’s existence, turning her head back to where she left him, looking to catch his eye. Which, ugh, isn’t fair of him to say. The moment he mentioned that, maybe, her presence at the party might make things run more smoothly, she dropped everything—literally, dropping her books on her bed and saying, “I’m there.” Then, at the party, they walked through the doors with her hand stubbornly clasping his—which he gently shook off, saying, “I want a friend, Jules. Not a babysitter.”

She locks onto him. Her brows go up, jerking her head towards to Kady. So she’s even asking for permission to “Learn Battle Magic” aka _“Make Out with the Hot, Prickly Brunette”._

And who is Quentin to say no to that? He knows Julia would do the same for him in a heartbeat.

With a shrug and a huff, he shoos her away, rolling his eyes at the way she bounces on feet as she drags Kady off.

And that’s when the party starts being _not fun_.

Much like how Julia never mastered the art of flirting, Quentin never really figured out how to… exist, at parties. Loitering around the food (and drinks. The drink are crucial) table and awkwardly striking up conversation with someone else who looked alone and kind enough to not tell him to fuck off, on sight, are about as far as he got in terms of _moves_.

And he’d forgotten that, when he’d agreed to come. He hadn’t gotten used to parties, at Brakebills, he realizes. He’d gotten used to a very _specific_ kind of experience at Brakebills parties. Most recently, it was the shield of Having A Girlfriend – as in, no-one cared, or judged (or: Quentin didn’t feel like anyone did) if you hung out with one person all night, if it was with the person you were fucking. Like, the party-wide understanding that it wasn’t that you _couldn’t_ interact with others, but rather that you didn’t _want_ to. Both happened to true for Quentin.

But before that, he had had a different kind of protection. The kind that he entered with a simple, impatient call of, “Hey Q, come here,” and looking over to see Eliot’s gaze on him, one arm out, and Margo beside him with a raised but inviting eyebrow. The bubble of Eliot-and-Margo – impenetrable and intimate. Somehow a place they thought he belonged, even though Quentin didn’t do much except gape at them both, at their side as he watched other people approach, to make conversation and passes that mostly didn’t stick. When they would leave, disgruntled, Margo and Eliot would curl in, snickering, around Quentin, like he was in on the joke—the hilarious notion that anyone would think they were _worthy _of their time and attention, and that Quentin was included, Quentin _was _worthy.

As surreal as those moments, they seemed to pass in a blur. Quentin couldn’t really single them out from the rest of the drinking, and magic, and dancing, occasionally, when Quentin was drunk enough to do so, and with sobriety far away, he couldn’t resist Eliot’s hands pulling him up. Those moments made parties bearable, but they weren’t what made them _special_—that would be the rare moments snatched up, where mostly the party was dwindling down, people pairing off, Margo included, and Eliot seemed to want to land where Quentin was, and just stay there, until Quentin was nodding off and they agreed it was probably time for bed. Well, more specifically: Quentin, not realizing he had fallen asleep until he startled awake, and looking at Eliot, who was maybe laughing a little, leaning over to run his finger along Quentin's hairline, not quite tucking the hair away and, kindly, saying, "It's late," or something like it, instead of making fun of him, even though he probably wasn't tired at all. Those sorts of human inconveniences seemed to not apply to Eliot.

Then, another image stuck in his brain. Upstairs, the two of them staring at each other, about to open their own bedroom doors, but glancing back, the silent act more unspeakably intimate than any soft conversation they'd been having downstairs, and now more than ever Quentin sees those moments as him and Eliot on the edge of something, just about to topple over together. And then… well.

Then Brakebills South. Alice.

Mike.

A not-so neat thing about Quentin is his capacity to so completely capable of putting himself in a weird, sad mood, no outside assistance required. And once that ball is rolling, there’s no stopping it taking up every other thought in its path.

This was a bad idea; saying yes but worse than saying yes, letting Julia go, thinking—well not thinking, that was the problem—that he could do this without her, seeing her happy face, excited to _go outside _with someone, for the first time, and if he did think, what he thought was that it looked nice, to feel that way, and if he took it away from her, he’d feel shitty about it, and really, he’s been holding it together but if he lets himself think about it, he has so fucking much to feel shitty about, adding to that pile feels—it would _suck_—

He’s so lost in thoughts of dread and regret, looking out at the sea of people taking up the rest of the Cottage, the people that don’t want him there, that wouldn’t care if he left (even Eliot, Eliot who isn’t even here, who—invited him and hasn’t spent any time with him all night) that he doesn’t notice a girl—uh, _woman_—walking up to him, eyes on his drink.

“That looks interesting,” she chirps. “Does it taste good?”

Quentin blinks, brows furrowing. “I—uh, yeah. Eliot made it, so.”

“Who?”

“Eliot? Eliot Waugh? The _host of the party you’re at_?” Jesus, he sounds like one of Eliot’s _boys_. Well—he is, in a way except the crucial difference of Eliot not actually being interested in fucking him. Even though, like, he did. They did. 

Which is fine. Because they’re friends. Friends don’t fuck.

“Oh, the tall guy! Josh introduced me when we walked in but I’m bad at names.” She shrugs. Turns out Quentin is too, because Josh—is who again? “Speaking of, my name’s Poppy. What’s yours?”

“Q—uh, Quentin. I mean, Quentin but people also call me ‘Q’. You know, for short.”

“I’m familiar with the concept of shortening names, yes.” She sounds more wryly amused than, like, weirded out at how awkward he is. Promising. “Q. That’s cute. Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, and then, “I mean, same,” even though he’s not really sure it is nice, just yet.

“Well, gotta give props to this Eliot guy I guess, they definitely didn’t have shit like this when I was here.” She’s still really interested in his drink.

“You’re an—you’re not a student?”

“Former,” she confirms. “I was in the same cohort as Josh. I know he comes back all the time, but I’ve been away and not had the chance.”

_Josh_—as in Hoberman. Does actually come a lot, somehow with a different magical drug each time. Josh himself seems nice enough but Quentin does not have positive associations because the last time he partook in one of Josh's “presents”, he ended up trying to prove he knows Irish dancing. On top of a table. While Eliot and Margo watched gleefully, poor Alice trying to pull him down and Josh yelling, a little tearfully, that he was _so fucking proud of him_.

So. It doesn’t make him any less wary of furthering this interaction – from what Eliot said, Josh is one of the saner, less wild individuals from his year group, but he manages a polite, “Away?”

“I study dragons,” Poppy replies, with the air of someone who is used to this getting a big reaction. “I was checking some out in Australia.”

“_Holy shit_,” Quentin says, not caring that it makes Poppy smirk even wider, probably exactly what she relishes in hearing people say. “I—dragons? Like, actual dragons?”

“Actual dragons,” she says, low and patronizing but fuck it, Quentin can be patronized by someone who knows about dragons—has actually _seen _some—

Quentin distantly comes back to the words he’s saying—“because, like, I’ve read about them, duh, but the library has hardly _anything_ on them—I can’t even tell like, which types from fiction are, you know, _not_ fictional—”

“You’re a first year, right?”

That sounds… suspiciously close to an insult. Or, Quentin can’t imagine it _not_ being one. He’s also not jazzed about being interrupted. “Uh, yeah. Is it… obvious or something?”

“Oh totally,” Poppy says brightly. “Not in a bad way! You know, it’s actually kind of nice. You know, being so excited about magic.”

Quentin frowns. Poppy’s not the first person to say something to that effect to him. In fact Eliot had, at the end of many parties they ended together, when Quentin would wait for the other shoe to drop; for Eliot to slap both his thighs and say, “Well this has been great darling, but I really must check on things,” or for someone to come drag him away. But they never did. Nothing took Eliot away from him.

This one particular instance they had been in the nook, which maybe lent itself to hushed way Eliot spoke, just for Quentin, when he said, _Q, I hope magic never stops making you this happy_.

“Thanks,” he says to Poppy, which is what he had said to Eliot, but the roughness in his voice now is different from the one he had then, the flutter in his chest absent.

“I have pictures, you know,” she says, with that same lilting quality to her voice. Like she’s playing coy at playing coy.

“Like—print-outs?”

“No, I meant on my phone.”

“But—I thought we—phones aren’t allowed.”

“You _are _a first year,” Poppy coos. “Gosh. Well, I won’t tell if you won’t! And you wouldn’t do that, would you Quentin?”

“I, uh… I guess not?”

“You’re so sweet,” Poppy says, which doesn't sound like a compliment either. “Wanna meet me outside in five? I wanna smoke, and I can tell you all about dragons. If you’re interested.”

Outside. Quentin may be extremely out of his depth here but he knows what _outside _means here, now – hot, older Magician lady with expertise in dragons and who very much looks like she’d eat him up if given the chance. _That’s _what would happen if they went outside. And he needs to decide, pretty quickly, if he wants that.

Which. Of course he does, doesn’t he? Like abjectly he’s a little scared of Poppy but given his recent history, that’s kind of like… the opposite of a problem. Even as she’s the one inviting him outside, she’s turned back to stare at the party, like the goings on are more interesting than facing Quentin directly. Again, not exactly ineffective. That plus the fact she’s clearly smarter than him also tracks – Julia, Alice and—

Well.

Point being, it’s not a deal breaker. Kind of the opposite, in theory. In theory. In theory making out with a hot older lady who does magic better than him is, like, something he would have fantasized about not that long ago, before all of this. Like, would have tried not to jerk off about it until Penny left their room. It’s just that his stupid—brain is failing to catch up with this situation. This situation which is what he fucking _wants_, because why wouldn’t he?

From across the room there’s a loud cheer. Eliot is opening a champagne bottle with that old knife trick—not that, you know, _Quentin_ knows how to do it, it’s just. Objectively it’s, like, an old trick. Eliot basks in the attention, twirling the knife in his hand before he takes a bow. It’s never not been intoxicating to see Eliot in his element; to bear witness to how happy it makes him to make others happy. To make them forget everything outside the giddy delight of the Cottage. Quentin has long stopped seeing it as something frivolous, the effort he puts into the parties. It’s not just popularity for popularity’s sake, though Eliot would be the first to confirm that he’s a big fan of that too. But if it were just that, Eliot wouldn’t spend afternoons crafting new cocktails, thinking up themes and researching music. And Eliot would be the first to _deny_ it but, under all the _I don’t give a shit_ air, there’s actually plenty of giving a shit that goes into almost everything Eliot does. And it’s wonderful and special. Eliot is so—

“So?” Poppy nudges him. “I’ll grab my coat and meet you out back?”

Quentin swallows. “Y-yeah. I’ll be right there.”

*

Well, Quentin has no idea where Julia is, because stepping out onto the patio, he and Poppy are one of six other people he can see loitering around. Mostly paired up—like he is, he realizes. And they’re all either making out or about it, huddled together in giddy intimacy. Like _he is about to_.

Social rituals can be comforting to Quentin, sometimes. A strict script to fall back on when he doesn’t know what to do; an out from looking like a _complete_ weirdo. The problem is when those rules get murky. What exactly is he supposed to do here? Is it… polite to play at being oblivious? Like he doesn’t know _why_ Poppy invited him outside—should he let her make the move? Just in case he _is _wrong and she’s just interested in showing off her contraband digital dragon pics? Quentin would honestly maybe prefer that, right now. He’ll be disappointed if they end up just making out, and he doesn’t get to look at a single dragon.

Or maybe _that’s_ considered rude? Like, she went through the trouble of inviting him outside so the least he could do is make the _move_ move. It’s just like—how exactly is he supposed to do that? Just fucking—put his mouth on hers? Is that what she wants? Is that what _anyone _wants?

_(Eliot had. Mike was there, the one touching him, at first, but Eliot had been all Quentin could see, because Eliot had made sure Quentin kept looking at him, only him, and wild with it, Quentin had had enough room in the trap of bodies to push up and kiss Eliot before he lost his mind about _not_ kissing Eliot. And Eliot had immediately steadied them, immediately kissed him back, with a pleased gasp and putting a hand on the nape of Quentin’s neck. The way he always did, even before, like this had been where Eliot had wanted this to lead too, from the start—)_

“What’s it like being back?” he makes himself ask as he lights Poppy’s cigarette for her. He remembers Julia gently telling him once that conversations are easy – all you need to do is ask open-questions, and let the person talk and build from there. Even that he’s not great at – he always has so many fucking… thoughts and opinions that he’s truly terrible at tamping down. He can’t help interrupting, giving little tidbits or derailing it to something he knows about so he feels less at sea.

But he can try. He can… be this other person, one that people actually like. The selfless conversationalist.

Poppy watches him as takes a long drag. “It’s fine,” she says wryly. “I didn’t exactly—choose to come back, but it’s fine.”

“Oh?” Quentin says. “Did—are you—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she smiles, serene. “So I imagine you don’t really want to, either.”

Well. “That’s—”

“You know what I want,” she says, leaning close and whispering like it’s a secret. It makes Quentin feel hot all over, not in a _bad _way. Not _great_ but, you know, coming close to neutral, at least. Quentin, never a great actor, doesn’t quite school his expression into something _enthusiastic _in time. Poppy, sharp as she obviously is, notices. “Oh. Or maybe not.”

“No! I, um,” Quentin says quickly. He cups Poppy’s neck, which feels—nice. Soft. She smells like—girl. “I do. I do, I swear—I just—God, I’m sorry—”

“Oh jeez,” Poppy says, just about not rolling her eyes. The first time she’s seemed unimpressed with him, this whole time. At least it took _this_ long. “Got it.”

‘Got _what_?’ is what Quentin doesn’t get to ask before she goes ahead and kisses him. So much for Quentin being polite and doing it first.

Kissing Poppy is fine, like objectively. He imagines this is, like, your standard _make out at a party with someone _level of... quality. No-one expects it to change their life or whatever. Just someone friendly and warm and consenting. That’s what this is. It’s not a big deal. Sometimes a kiss is just a kiss. It just doesn't have to be _bad _in order to serve its purpose.

The thing is, it’s jarring kissing someone who isn’t Eliot. He’s the last person Quentin kissed, which—feels insane, considering Quentin had a _girlfriend_, but he doesn’t even remember the last time they kissed. Maybe it was on their way to class, a quick goodbye. It must have not been a big deal, which sounds—fuck, it sounds harsh, Quentin is an _asshole_. He doesn’t—mean to be, he’s not, like, _out_ here trying to—fucking hurt anyone’s feelings, he just keeps doing it because he _can’t_. Because it’s like he doesn’t know how _not_ to.

Because kissing Eliot? Changed his life. In ways that… sucked, now, obviously, but it doesn’t change what the moment meant, in the moment. Not just the—orgasm, not even just the kissing and Eliot being _so _good at it. It was being wanted and _held _like Eliot understood, like Eliot felt it too, the way Quentin did. Frantic and needy but also just easy. And like they were the same. Exactly the same. He’d never had that before—and, you know, it turned out that he’d been wrong but—it was liberating. To just _know_ you were on the same page. For _once _it hadn’t felt like stupid Quentin Coldwater, making things up in his head.

How is Quentin supposed to just _get over _that? Recover from it? The answer isn’t in Poppy’s mouth. Which is soft and sweet as he could possibly want it to be, but it isn’t _Eliot’s_. And she doesn’t—even _know_ what he’s doing—

Quentin jerks away. “This—isn't right. Poppy, I'm sorry I can't do this.”

Poppy just blinks at him. "Huh?"

"I'm—I'm really sorry, you're—you seem great, like, really fun but... I'm not over someone that I really thought I could get over if you and I, uh—that's not fair to you. I shouldn't use you like that." _Not that that would even work_. But that seems less important than apologizing for trying it in the first place. She'll probably hate him, like everyone in his life, but he'd deserve it. 

"What? I don't care," she laughs. "I just wanted to make out. Probably go upstairs do hands stuff and then call it a night."

Oh. "Fair enough," Quentin says stiltedly. This now feels—actually really embarrassing, instead of the right thing to do. "I think maybe you should find... someone else for that. Which shouldn't be, I mean, hard! You're so pretty. And fun." Probably a little too fun for Quentin, which may or may not be obvious from his emphasis of that very point. He hopes not.

Poppy regards him with unwavering interest, though it’s more clinical than he’d like. "You're cute. You sure I can't change your mind?"

"Um... no. I wouldn't... I mean...”

“Relax,” Poppy smiles, reaching to tuck his hair behind his ear. “It’s fine.”

Quentin glares at her, even as he huffs a little, with relief. “Gee, no-one’s ever told me that before. Great advice. I’ll, uh, take it under consideration.”

Poppy laughs again. “Wow, you’re a real piece of work. Maybe a hook-up would have been more trouble than it's worth."

Quentin, thinking of recent events, just says, "You have no idea."

"Ooh," Poppy says, leaning forward, "there's a story there, I _love_ stories—"

And before Quentin can tell her he's absolutely not divulging the details of the mess that is his love life, Poppy, a person who he was kissing moments ago, Eliot bursts through the door next to him with a concerned, “Quentin?”

He doesn’t even spot them at first, his gaze directly out towards the lawn, looking for Quentin there first.

“Uh, hi?” he gets out and Eliot startles, looking down at him. Then at Poppy.

He expects pride, haughtiness. Dreads it. Eliot putting a wall between them once again. Shit, maybe Eliot would wink salaciously at them both and tell them to _be safe _before he went on his merry way_. _But instead it’s something softer, more vulnerable.

_Embarrassed_. Eliot is embarrassed.

But why? _Why? _

“Oh,” he says. “I was just… I couldn’t find you, you weren’t even in your room so. I was… just looking but. You’re fine—clearly. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Eliot—”

“Oh _Eliot_,” Poppy says, loaded with meaning and stopping Eliot in his tracks as he had turned to leave. Eliot turns, comically slow. His eyes go from her, to Quentin, then back to her, something calculating behind them, like he’s trying to anticipate what Poppy could mean by that. For a few moments Quentin doesn’t breathe either, irrationally worried she’s going to spill all his secrets—secrets that aren’t even—Eliot _knows_ how he feels, obviously, but he’s still frozen with dread that she might bring them up, and ruin… _something_.

But Quentin is just catastrophizing. All Poppy says is: “Great party.”

“Thank you,” Eliot says with a tight smile. “I live to serve.”

“No kidding.”

Eliot nods. “Anyway. Carry, uh, on.”

“Oh we were done,” Poppy says brightly. She takes three quick puffs in succession before stubbing her cigarette out under her boot. “I should see what Josh is doing before he gets too stoned to get me home. Anyway, boys—it’s been a pleasure, I’m sure.”

She sweeps past them both. Not even the smell of smoke lingers. The night is completely silent in her wake, and the quiet swells between the two of them. Eliot had been just about to leave, and Quentin wants desperately to keep him here, but has no idea how to do that. It’s Eliot. It’s Eliot and a _party_—who is Quentin against all that?

No, Quentin tells himself sternly. That’s stupid. They’re—friends. Quentin doesn’t feel that way. _Will not _keep feeling that way. He does now, for now, but it's only _for now_. They’re evolved, remember? They can—

“We’re like Darwin’s finches,” Quentin blurts out.

“Excuse me?”

“Earlier—I said, um, a joke about evolution? About, um, us?”

Eliot had said that he would pretend to get it. Quentin expects Eliot to put Quentin out of his awkward misery, the way he always has, but the easiness never comes. What they use to have.

“Ah yes,” Eliot says finally. “Of course.”

It’s awful. Quentin hates this. Hates himself.

“Sorry—” Quentin starts.

“Not at all!” Eliot rushes out. “I’m sorry, I just, uh. I should just get back in there. You know. Duty calls.”

It all starts slipping from him, all at once. The private, perfect bubble of Eliot’s attention, winding down from parties together, blearily looking over at Eliot and feeling so glad, so happy, so _normal_—

They were idiots. _Quentin_ was an idiot, and Eliot was just humoring him. They’re never going to get back to what they had. Never go back to _normal_.

“Yeah,” Quentin says, with no feeling. No energy to muster any.

The door swings shut behind Eliot.

A couple giggles in the distance, and the noise gets louder until Quentin looks down from the stars and sees Julia, fingers tangled in Kady’s.

“Q?” Julia frowns.

“Yeah.”

“What are—you’re alone out here?”

“Yeah.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Julia, I’ll see you, uh—” Kady jerks her head towards the Cottage.

Julia glances at Quentin again, then squeezes her hand. “Sorry, I’m—another time? Maybe?”

Great. So now he _is _cock-blocking Julia (or—not _cock_—but, um…). After going out of his way to not do that. Fantastic. He just keeps making everyone's night better.

“Of course,” she says, nodding. “See ya. You too, uh… Quentin.”

He doesn’t actually give a shit how Kady feels about him—in fact, bring it on, one more person in the Cottage he can’t face—but the sympathy on her face is the only thing that’s worse than, like, the ire he would have predicted he’d get for interrupting a hook-up. He didn't even think she knew his name.

He feels sick.

With Kady gone, Julia settles down on the bench next to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, a warning.

“Of course.” She takes his hand.

He really, really loves her.

He shouldn’t have come tonight. But at least he was smart enough to invite her. Smart enough to bring her back to him.

The idea of going back in the Cottage, of running into Eliot or having to go up to his room is so insufferable, he says, “Can I sleep in your room tonight?”

“Obviously, you dummy.”

He huffs a laugh.

Looks up at the stars.

Takes a long breath.

And lets it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm on tumblr @ ameliajessica, come yell at me about queliot

**Author's Note:**

> this WILL be multi-chapter!!! there WILL be an answer to the question, 'will our favourite boys figure it out???' (and, yes, it is the answer you are thinking of), but it's just been taking me so damn long to figure it out and i wanted to put SOME fic out into the world first.
> 
> sorry it's no 'new' content for now, but i hope this satisfies something! let me know below, if you'd be so kind. or dm me at @ameliajessica on tumblr, i love that shit.


End file.
